Saving Grace
by Shakespira
Summary: A wager between a viscount and his seneschal to turn Grace Hawke from uncouth spitfire to genteel noblewoman proves to be an irresistible challenge for Seneschal Bran. It may also be the death of him, if she has her way. Rated M for later chapters. Book-cover image by the amazingly talented Seika who is ladyseika on deviantArt .
1. Prologue

**A/N: **_I've had this idea floating around for some time to write a Pygmalion story using F!Hawke. I couldn't figure out who would play the role of Professor Higgins until I read zevgirl's wonderful "Release from the Chains" and realized Seneschal Bran would be the perfect professor. Thank you for providing the inspiration, zevgirl!_

_Thank you, Lisa. You are far more gracious about beta-ing yet another story than I have any right to expect._

_With apologies to George Bernard Shaw._

**Saving Grace**

**Prologue**

"He is a supercilious, condescending, arrogant, pompous…stop me if you need to be somewhere…patronizing, pretentious…" Grace began in a low growl, ticking off each point with a furious flick of fingers.

"Hawke, that's enough," Aveline said firmly, skin mottled by an unattractive flush. Gingers never blushed attractively, Hawke observed with just a smidgeon of smugness, which died away when she realized the reason for Aveline's blush.

"He's behind me, isn't he?" Grace Hawke whispered, resignation and embarrassment warring for prominence. Embarrassment was the undisputed winner.

"He is," the man in question said coldly. There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice. Or the frost. Hawke shivered, refusing to turn and acknowledge the man until she was forced to.

"I must say, I am in awe of your vocabulary, Serah Hawke," the man added, his tones indicating otherwise. "Quite impressive for a Fereldan refugee of dubious social standing."

"I wasn't talking about you," she retorted, deciding to brazen her way through the situation. The heat in her cheeks told a different story. "I was talking about some other self-important sycophant."

And where did he get off calling her a Fereldan refugee of dubious social standing? Not that she wasn't, but he didn't have any right to say so. Or, maybe he did, given what she'd said about him, but it didn't stop her turning in her chair so he could see the fierce glare she directed at him. He was singularly unimpressed so she leapt from her chair to stand in her most menacing battle-stance, which, considering her stature, was probably laughable.

He was nearly as tall as Carver and that made her even angrier because she didn't actually want to think about her dead brother. Her eyes narrowed and she wished for a minute that she had Bethany's ability to shoot lightning at fools. She knew just where she'd place it. "I was, most definitely, not talking about you," she reiterated with little conviction. What did she care if he knew what she thought of him?

"Far be it from me to impugn your reputation by insinuating you are a woman of mendacious habits, serah," Seneschal Bran began, coming into the room with a stiff gait, his shoulders, surprisingly broad for a bureaucrat, rigid with offended outrage held at bay with icy control.

"Good, because I'd have to challenge you to a duel if you impugned anything of mine," she replied and reached for her cloak. With a snap of her wrist, she settled it around her shoulders and gave Aveline a grin, pretending that she wasn't embarrassed and furious in equal measure.

"I'll see you later, Guard-Captain Aveline," she said as she started to leave.

The pompous prig who'd been the object of her diatribe stood in front of the door, arms folded tightly across his chest, nose in the air. Really, he needed to be skewered and put over a fire to roast slowly. And painfully.

"You are the most irri-" she began in a carefully modulated, if somewhat snide, voice. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to regain any semblance of grace, even though her theatrical departure was ruined. She tried again, delighted that the snide tone was intent on remaining firmly in place.

"Seneschal Bran, I'm sure it's escaped your notice, but I can't get through the door with you _standing_ in the way."

An unusual and nervous titter from Aveline was quickly swallowed by a snort, which made Grace's all-too-ready smile come springing forth. She wondered, briefly, as she stood with a hand on her hip and her toe tapping, how he would look with his carefully arranged hair all mussed up and the stick out of his arse. That immediately made her want to scrub her brain with a bottle of whiskey for having any thoughts about his arse or any other part of his anatomy. He was old enough to be her…well not father, and certainly not her uncle. Whiskey. Copious amounts. She'd bloody well _run_ to the Hanged Man.

"What charming manners," he said with a pitying smile, stepping to one side. Spiteful old bastard, she thought, reaching out and pinching his arse on her way by.

His indrawn breath of outrage was music to her ears as she made her way out of the keep. That the arse had been surprisingly firm only made her decide more than one bottle of whiskey might be necessary to scrub that additional information from a brain already in crisis.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The next time she saw the high-and-mighty seneschal was two weeks later in the Blooming Rose. She'd made an appointment with someone named Serendipity on Isabela's recommendation. They had just returned from a week of sleeping on hard-packed sand out on the Wounded Coast and her neck and shoulders were as knotted as a pine panel. Isabela assured her that no one's hands were as skilled as Serendipity's, not even her own.

She entered the brothel late in the evening, a few minutes before her appointment, studiously ignoring her uncle, who sat in his customary place, elbows propping up his head. Madame Lusine was busy with a patron who wore the familiar sneering condescension of the seneschal. He seemed to be in lengthy negotiations with the madame. In a fit of impatience, Grace cleared her throat and politely interrupted, using her not inconsiderable charm.

"Only _you_ would haggle over the price of a prostitute," she said, rolling her eyes for effect, with all the grace of an invidious adolescent.

That's when she discovered that it wasn't just gingers who blushed badly. She should have known it was redheads in general. She snickered as Seneschal Bran's skin broke out in splotchy blobs of red that moved slowly and steadily up his neck to roost in his cheeks. He looked down his straight, aristocratic nose at her, unconcerned by the alarming bloom of unhealthy color in his cheeks. His auburn brow rose and she was tempted to push it back down with the point of her dagger.

"I expect no less from the niece of Kirkwall's _finest_ citizen," he replied with that haughty disdain that made her want to box his ears. They both glanced over at her uncle, still propped up at the bar, nursing a drink.

"And yet, I don't see him caviling like a fishwife over the price of pike," she sneered.

"As I am not bartering for a night with _you_, Serah Hawke, I believe our discourse is at an end," Bran finally replied, as cold as a frost-bound night. His golden brown eyes narrowed and his jaw twitched, but he maintained his self-important pose as he continued to look down at her from on high, and she wondered, briefly, what his nose would look like with a bump right in the middle of it because she wanted very much to break it.

"Serah Hawke, Serendipity is expecting you," Madame Lusine said, with a majestic inclination of her head, which was only inclined so graciously because Grace had paid in advance. _Without_ quibbling. She barely restrained herself from sticking her tongue out at the arrogant arse of a seneschal as she swept past him; chin inclined at what she hoped was a regal angle and not a pugilistic point. _Fussy old man_.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The third time she saw Seneschal Bran was five days later when she was asked to look for the viscount's son. Not by the seneschal, of course; he would as lief eat a hare's balls than ask anything of her, she was sure. But she marched up to him and demanded to know why the viscount, if he wanted to keep his son's disappearance a secret, had hired the loudest and most vulgar group of mercenaries in Kirkwall to do the deed.

"Yes, it is difficult to believe anyone could possibly be louder or more vulgar than you, Serah Hawke," the seneschal said disdainfully.

"Why, you self-important, jumped-up, smug _little_ man, I can bring Saemus's arse back here before those idiots find their way out of the city."

"How very surprising of you to overstate your abilities in so brash and uncouth a manner," he replied with a cutting little smile that begged to be removed. Her fist volunteered for the honor, but Fenris, apparently sensing where it wanted to go, put a restraining hand on her arm.

"Varric, Fenris, Anders, you're with me," she growled and swept out of the keep with enough energy to create a small windstorm in her wake. She was only sorry that the keep door couldn't be slammed. Damned guards anyway.

Two days later, having walked her poor companions and Saemus into the ground, she stormed the viscount's keep. Her leather armor was filthy, crusted over with blood and other bits of things she didn't want to analyze. Her hair, normally said to be her finest feature, was a dark brown mass of tangles, straggling down her back like wet swamp grass. There was a gash over her right eye, which was swelling shut, and her lip was three times its normal size because she'd been smacked in the face with the hilt of a sword by that calumniator of a mercenary, whose name she couldn't, or wouldn't, remember.

She marched straight into Bran Drummond's office without so much as a by-your-leave and pointed at Saemus, who was looking on with a bemused and befuddled expression on his face. Her smile was so large it threatened to split her already split lip, but she didn't care.

"I believe, Seneschal Bran, that the reward for the safe return of Saemus Dumar is ten sovereigns."

"Yes, and by the time I take out the cleaning fees for the carpets, the reward will be considerably less," he replied coolly, surveying the carpet with disapproval.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed, planting her none-too-clean hands on his desk and leaning across it, trying not to blush as a seashell dislodged from her hair and fell onto the wooden expanse with a loud clatter. _So much for intimidation_.

"It is never wise to antagonize the viscount's office," he responded with a flash of…was that amusement? Oh, what she wouldn't do to reach across and smack his smug little face, although from her vantage point just inches from it, she realized he actually had very nice bone-structure – oh no. No, no, no! Her mind was not going to go there, no it wasn't. More whiskey was called for. She spun on her heel, grinding sand and bloody bits into his precious carpet, and swept out of his office.

In the end, she received twenty gold sovereigns from a very grateful and charming Viscount Dumar. She marched back into the seneschal's office to perform her "little dance of gloatiness" as Anders referred to it.

"When I get back from the Deep Roads expedition, I will have enough to pay any outstanding taxes on the Amell Estate. Get the paperwork ready," she said on her way out, shaking her coin-purse at the exasperated seneschal.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The fourth time she saw him, she was so dispirited and depressed she couldn't be bothered to even be upset by his presence. The memorial service for Bethany was concluding and she sat on the low wall that separated the garden behind the chantry from the main courtyard, watching the roses grow through a haze of tears and a wee dram of whiskey, as Sebastian called it. Or perhaps more than one wee dram. She was a bit fuzzy on the details. However much, it wasn't enough to stop the dark thoughts trapped in her head, but she was bound and determined to try to ignore that quibbling detail.

"Serah Hawke," the seneschal began and she waved him away with a grand flourish, nearly sending herself head over heels into the garden with her extravagant gesture.

"Go away before I…you know what? I'm too tired to spar with you tonight. You want to tell me you're sorry about the loss of the only good and decent Hawke, stand in that line over there," she said, pointing to her mother, who stood with Grace's friends.

"I came to tell you that the viscount extends his deepest…"

"I. Don't. Care. He can extend his deepest _whatever_ and I won't care. He can hand me a million sovereigns, the keys to the keep and my very own pony and I. Still. Won't. Care."

"Yes, I can see that, Serah Hawke. However, my duty dictates that I deliver Viscount Dumar's condolences."

She glared at him as he sat down beside her and pulled out a small silver flask. "You need this more than I," he added and placed it in her hand.

She'd be double damned by the Maker himself before she'd thank the fastidious, finicky…he certainly was handsome in a certain light when his face wasn't all pinched and prissy…seneschal. Obviously she wasn't drunk enough, so she gulped the fiery liquid in the silver flask and shivered as it hit her stomach, burning the entire way.

"It won't work," she muttered, thrusting the container into his hands and storming away. She didn't know what wouldn't work, and she regretted not taking another nip before returning the flask, but she kept walking until she found herself in the square in front of the Amell Estate that was now in her possession, and she let out a scream that relieved the tension in her shoulders and made lights come on in every estate facing the square, even her own, which made her wonder who, exactly, was in the estate.

A hand on her shoulder, too light to be Aveline's and too heavy to be Varric's, squeezed gently. "Go to bed, Grace. Things will look just as grim tomorrow, but you will be sober enough to deal with them."

She swung around, ready to put her fist into the mouth of the man who dared insinuate she was drunk. She drew her arm back, curling her hand into a fist and then found herself kissing the man instead, her hand fisted in his doublet.

He stood stiffly, his hands dropping to his side, his posture rigid, but his lips were warm and seemed willing enough and she was well and truly drunk so what did it matter, and then she felt a hand at the back of her neck, soft and unscarred. Her eyes snapped open and she pushed him away, glaring at him, wishing she had her daggers with her.

"How dare you attack me…you…you overblown, conceited, pompous jacka…"

But he was already walking way, his unhurried gait infuriatingly insulting. In the morning she convinced herself it had been a bad dream. There was absolutely nothing about the seneschal she found in the least attractive. She had stumbled, he had caught her, their lips had accidently touched, nothing more. Yes, that's exactly what had happened.

"I'll just avoid the man, that should be easy enough," she announced to her bedroom, but quietly as loud noises made her head very unhappy.

The Fates laughed at that. Apparently they thought otherwise.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"So, it would seem she has quite a temper," Viscount Dumar stated. "I am quite surprised. Her mother was always a biddable young woman of impeccable manners."

Bran eyed his friend and viscount with disbelief. "Would that be before or after she ran off with an apostate, leaving young De Launcet at the proverbial altar?"

A smile lit the viscount's eyes. "I always admired her mettle. De Launcet would never have survived a marriage with her."

"Perhaps, Your Grace, but his fortunes would have."

The viscount laughed outright at that remark. "True enough. Now we need to decide how to introduce young Grace into society. With her wealth, she'll be asked to attend the usual affairs, but with her political naivety she will be easily influenced. I would much prefer it is _our_ influence that she succumbs to and not some handsome, feckless noble's."

"Shouldn't grooming her to take her place in society fall to her mother?" Bran asked, a trifle quickly. He paused and walked around his desk to stand at his window, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the placid square below him. He was much too busy and much too jaded to remember a drunken kiss now a week old. Instead, he concentrated on Dumar's words.

"Under normal circumstances, but there is bad blood between the two, and, with poor Leandra in such a state over the younger daughter, I don't foresee that happening. No, we must look to another for her education."

Bran nodded, considering a short list of people he would deem worthy of training the fractious young woman in question. "Perhaps Lady Eliza Mumford? She has an unimpeachable demeanor, although her knowledge of politics is rather - understated."

"Whoever instructs her will have to be a very intelligent and patient person," the viscount said pensively. "She obviously needs lessons in elocution, comportment, dancing, politics and history. She'll need someone to take her in hand with her grooming as well."

"You sound as though you're schooling her to become the viscount," Bran remarked far less casually than he'd intended. He couldn't imagine a more ludicrous idea; she was as feral as a she-wolf.

"She would be a suitable match for my son, given proper instruction."

Bran's derisive snort got away from him before he could rein it in. "She's a bit old for him, don't you think?"

With his gaze still locked on the square below him, where a young woman stood arguing with a City Guardsman, he didn't see the viscount's appraising stare.

"All this training would have to be accomplished by the First Day Festival and Ball."

Another derisive chuckle escaped and Bran finally turned to eye his friend with a raised brow of disbelief. "Tell me you do not intend this miraculous transformation to be completed by _this_ First Day."

"Six months is quite long enough, Bran, provided the proper tutor can be found. I doubt you'd be able to accomplish the task, however. I shall have to give this more thought."

His ego winced at the slight and he found himself responding with cold dignity, "I assure you, Marlowe, that I will not only have her ready to take her place in society by then, but she will be the most sought after partner at the ball."

"Indeed? You seem very confident of your abilities. Perhaps a wager, for old time's sake?"

Bran's pride agreed before his mind had time to consider the matter, and he found himself accepting the terms with alacrity.

"I will speak to Leandra about this arrangement tomorrow," the viscount promised. "Best not to mention the wager, however."

It was only as Dumar left, chuckling, that Bran realized he'd been played like a well-strung lute.


	2. The Art of Theatrics

**A/N: **_Thank you to all those who read, alerted and added the story to their favorites, and especially to those who reviewed. _  
_Many thanks, Lisa, for your help and your speedy beta. You are a gem and I'm very grateful for your help._

**The Art of Theatrics**

"If my choices were to purge myself on a pyre or spend one minute alone with Seneschal Bran, I would leap quite happily into the flames."

"Your penchant for drama is profoundly annoying, and decidedly unladylike."

Grace snorted in disbelief, an inelegant sound sure to vex her vexatious mother. "Do you _hear_ yourself? It wasn't all that long ago that you were helping Josephine give birth to her calf, Boney Parts, mucking out the stable and various other menial and tedious tasks because you were the wife of a poor farmer. Now, suddenly, you're concerned about ladylike behavior? Well met, Lady Hypocrite, thy name is Leandra!" Grace cried out, hand to her heart. _Hmm, I might have overdone that last bit._

Leandra looked up from her needlework, a very decorous and genteel frown appearing between her meticulously groomed grey brows. "Such theatrics, dear, really. I don't know where you came by such talent. I can only imagine it comes from your Hawke lineage."

Grace sighed feelingly, in lieu of cursing, coming to drop carelessly into the chair across from her mother, who was tatting lace for the neck of one of her many new gowns. She'd never seen a woman spend so much time and money on frills and fripperies. Worse still was that she referred to her clothes as her _habiliment_, her styled hair as _her coiffure_, and her preparations for donning a garment from her prodigious assortment of dresses as her _toilette_. The woman was an incomprehensible stranger at the moment.

"My dear, as a member of society you have an obligation to attend soirées, balls, nuncheons, and various and sundry formal entertainments. There is also the Grand Tourney. Most importantly there is the First Day Ball, the official opening of the formal Season. You will, naturally, need to be tutored in those areas that you do not excel in before First Day."

Leaning forward and refusing to roll her eyes, even though they were dying to do just that, Grace said, "I have excelled in every area I have been required to, Mother, or you would not be sitting here in this ridiculously _feminine_ parlor, sewing lace for your gaggle of gewgaw-encrusted gowns."

She hadn't intended to speak with such censure in her voice; she had intended to be as flippant as always, but her frustration chose a different tone. Her mother lost her newly-dawned aristocratic mask for a brief moment and displayed the face of a grieving woman. That expression whisked away Grace's arguments and she stood up quickly, pacing the room, hitching up her trousers, which had once belonged to Carver, so she wouldn't trip on them.

Her _habiliment_, when not busy chasing down lost citizens and criminals alike, consisted of baggy trousers and equally baggy shirts that had belonged to either Carver or her father. They were soft and worn, and if she closed her eyes and inhaled, she could almost smell their unique scents, almost believe they were all still together, although she would never understand why Carver had always seemed to smell of peaches.

"Moreover, dear, I believe he has a son of marriageable age."

Grace stopped pacing and looked at her mother in disbelief, and, she was sure, horror was in the vicinity, fighting for prominence as well. "Mother, honestly. Bran Drummond's son is fifteen, which would make marriage to him more than a little creepy, and, hopefully illegal, even in Kirkwall. For your elucidation and edification, the young _boy_ resides in Tantervale with his grandparents."

"Oh? I was sure he was older than that. I suppose I just think of Bran as being older because he and Marlowe Dumar have been friends since childhood, and Marlowe is my age. But I do recall what a scamp he was as a youngster," her mother remarked with a studied air of disinterest, a vague smile permitting itself to rest on her features before she returned to her tatting.

Well, Grace thought, giving free rein to her eyes, which immediately rolled upwards, it appeared the Hawke family was not the only one responsible for the strong streak of theatrics. Her mother seemed quite adept at them as well. Still, she found herself asking, "Marlowe Dumar was a scamp?" if only to further incite her mother.

"Must you deliberately provoke me, Grace?"

"How can I possibly answer that in such a manner that will not put me in a decidedly disadvantageous light? If I answer in the affirmative, I am the worst example of a daughter in all of Thedas. If I answer no, you will have every reason to call me a prevaricator and there will be a stain upon the Hawke name. Thus, I shall remain silent on the issue, and hope that you enlighten me as to how Marlowe Dumar was a scamp."

Sighing, clearly frustrated with her daughter, but apparently unwilling to admit that she was, Leandra set her sewing aside and stood, smoothing out the flow of dark purple silk. "As you are quite clearly in no mood to listen to anything I might have to say with regard to the seneschal and his kind offer, I see no reason to believe you are in a mood to listen to an explanation of why Bran, and not Marlowe Dumar, was a scamp."

Here Grace allowed herself an affectionate smile. "No, Mother, I am most anxious to learn of the jocose and impish escapades of the most staid, somber and sardonic man in all of the Free Marches."

"I am quite impressed, Grace."

Grace preened and tilted her head to one side. "Why thank you, Mother. Is it my keen grasp of language that impresses you?"

Her mother's laughter caught them both by surprise. "You are a scamp in your own way, Grace. I was referring to your claim to know every man in the Free Marches."

Grace's laughter joined with her mother's and the two women left the parlor in accord. And, as Grace had planned, the discussion as to whether the seneschal would or would not tutor her in the ways of society had been forgotten. As she ran up the stairs to change into her leather armor, she found herself trying to reconcile the snooty seneschal with the scamp her mother claimed he had once been.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Leandra immediately fell in with our plans, though she did say it would take a miracle for young Grace to agree."

"_Young_ Grace? She has passed the first blush of youth, Marlowe. She is, if memory serves, in her late twenties."

Bran stopped arranging the papers on the viscount's desk in favor of glancing at the man, who was sniggering…a sound which no man of his age and standing should make. A world-weary, if somewhat wary, sigh sallied forth. "What has you snickering like a jackanapes. Your Grace," he added with just enough hesitation to convey his sarcasm.

"Nothing at all, Bran," the viscount assured in a tone that was far from reassuring. It, in fact, bordered on cheerfully mocking in its nature.

Without another word, Bran left his friend to ponder his retreating backside in the hope that it conveyed how he felt at the moment. Bad enough he'd been led into the trap to begin with; he refused to add to the man's obvious amusement. For years, Marlowe had badgered and berated Bran on the subject of his seneschal's bachelorhood. He was content to remain single, however much Marlowe wanted to believe otherwise.

No, he saw the shrewish, peevish, childish and altogether irksome woman as a task, just as the annual budget was…onerous and necessary, albeit a task that would prove personally profitable, should he succeed.

Two hours later, the viscount summoned him into his office, waving a lily-scented note at him. "I have had word from Leandra. She fears her daughter will never agree to this and is concerned that Grace will seek out her companions for any training she might deem necessary."

The level of horror in the man's tone and expression nearly undid Bran's carefully arranged look of disinterest. Glancing at the portrait of Marlowe's hapless predecessor, Perrin Threnhold, helped him remain composed despite the laughter that the viscount's distress and outrage provoked.

"If Lady Leandra is unable to convince her unruly daughter to avail herself of the lessons, I shall ensure _young_ Grace does so," he assured the viscount, his well-ordered mind formulating a plan.

"Oh-ho, Bran, there's that devilish look in your eye that never bodes well for others. But how will you manage it, I wonder? Hmmm, perhaps a side wager?"

"Viscount Dumar, your penchant for gambling is a most disturbing practice, and serves only to highlight your profligate ways. I would hate for the general populace to become aware of such dissolute behavior."

"Twenty sovereigns says Grace Hawke sees through your devious plan. Ten more, should you divulge your plans to me beforehand."

"If she doesn't wish to be trained, I will rescind my offer. If she is as contrary as she appears, I believe that will do the trick. A timely visit tomorrow morning, a few well-chosen words, and she will demand I assist her."

The viscount's smile broadened. "And that, my friend, is why you are the most astute seneschal in the Free Marches."

Bran allowed himself a brief smile as he strode from the room before resuming his haughty demeanor once more. By the time he sat down behind his desk, all traces of warmth or cordiality were hidden behind his customary wall of cool indifference.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You know, Hawke, I hate to be the one to say it, but your mother's right."

Grace looked up from her cards to stare at her diminutive friend. "Whatever sum she's offered you to say that, I will gladly double it if you don't repeat it. Ever."

Fenris snorted delicately, tossing his cards aside and reaching for his goblet of wine. Corff had long ago allowed the elf to bring his own wine and goblet with him, announcing that the Hanged Man wasn't some dandified gentlemen's club and if he wanted to drink grape piss instead of good, honest ale, he'd be happy to charge him for it. Fenris paid a small stipend each month in order to drink his grape piss without further complaint from Corff.

"I am in agreement, as well, Hawke. You cannot simply purchase a place in society, you must earn the respect of the nobles. Given your wealth, and the Amell name, you have an obligation to assist in shaping the laws that govern Kirkwall. This cannot be accomplished if you insist on wearing your brother's castoffs and ridiculing the aristocracy."

Grace folded her fan of cards and placed them face down in front of her. She had told her friends about the seneschal's offer to lighten the mood, expecting them to laugh with her, not argue that she was wrong not to accept. Disappointment was a finely-honed dagger in her heart. Or, perhaps, merely a pin-prick. She refused to roll her eyes or issue forth a long, drawn-out sigh in the silence that had fallen. They were all waiting for her to do precisely that and she'd be thrice damned by the Maker before she'd accommodate their expectations.

She glanced at Sebastian, who wouldn't look up from his cards, but who wore a timorous expression of solidarity with the other men. Naturally. When was the last time he'd actually had a thought of his own that wasn't divinely inspired, she wondered, not without affection. Though they were close in age, she had always considered him a younger brother.

"Bollocks, boys, and I mean that most sincerely. I don't need to know how to dance the Marcher Minuet in order to spend money in the Hightown Market or help the refugees find employment. Besides, Varric, you're just as wealthy as I am yet I don't see you parading through the noble estates of Hightown like a painted lady on the alert for new clients."

A look of abject horror on his face, Varric held a hand to his heart. "Madam, dwarves don't _parade_. Nor do they cavort or frolic. They don't dance, either. At least not if they have any self-respect at all. Short legs were not meant to dance the galop."

Obviously theatrics weren't limited to the Hawkes and Amells; the Tethras clan had a natural flair for them. She reached for her mug and took a long pull, just as he continued.

"Actually, if you want dance lessons, Broody's the one you should ask. Didn't he say he spent all his free time dancing from room to room in that mausoleum of a mansion he lives in?"

A spray of Corff's finest ale departed her mouth in a rush, and Sebastian, sitting across from her, adroitly dodged to the side. She admired his reflexes and would have remarked on them had she not been busy choking on the remainder of her mouthful of the pale golden liquid.

"All right, Sebastian, have your say in the matter as well. You are, after all, the only noble-born among us," she finally sputtered, once she was sure she would survive her ale ordeal.

"True alliances are formed at social gatherings among the nobility, Hawke. You can do a great deal for the city if you are in a position to sway the nobles, which you cannot do in your current state of –" he trailed off, looking apologetic and slightly bewildered as to how he had backed himself into a verbal corner. "I beg your pardon, it's that wee dram causing me to speak so freely. I mean only that Seneschal Bran seems a worthy man, if a lesser noble. Viscount Dumar holds him in high esteem. You could do far worse than have him as an instructor."

She didn't have the heart to tell the youthful Starkhaven prince that he'd had more than a wee dram. There was a slight flush to his cheeks and his words slurred just around the edges. She pushed those words aside and picked up her cards.

"Are you three going to play cards or carp like the harridans you are?" she challenged.

Carping it was. Fenris spoke quietly, but forcefully. "Hawke, do not be stubborn. You have stated, on numerous occasions, that you wish to change the way in which Kirkwall does business. You cannot do so by offending every noble in Hightown."

Again, Grace carefully set her cards face down on the table. "Fine, then I will find a suitable mentor, but I can tell you right now, Bran Drummond is _not_ that person. And why, for that matter, would he consent to such a thing when it's as obvious as a wart on the end of one's nose that he doesn't give a flying rat's curling tail about – "

"Ha! You're sure about that?" Varric broke in with a broad smile.

Once the inevitable and uncontrollable shuddering that thought entailed had died away, she spoke quickly and succinctly. "Indubitably. Absolutely. Unquestionably. Why would you even ask that?"

"Hmmm, I'm not sure you're ready for the answer, Hawke, so I'm just going to ignore it for now."

"Coward."

"One of a dwarf's most useful traits," Varric agreed with equanimity. "Right up there with our stone sense, which I, by the way, don't possess."

"Yes, I believe we established _that_ in the Deep Roads," she retorted dryly.

Silence descended at her words and she glanced around the table at the men, whose expressions varied from shocked to dumbstruck. "What? You know damn well Bethany would be laughing at that exchange. Honestly, do you really think she'd want us to sob and beat our chests every time we mention our trek into the Deep Roads? I won't do that to her memory. Bad enough Mother does."

There was another pregnant pause as everyone decided to use their eyes to proclaim their extreme discontent at her apparent blasphemy. "Stop glaring at me as if I've eaten your young. Take a minute to search your ale-addled souls and you'll see I'm absolutely right. She would be horrified by all the doleful, mournful falderal everyone continues to spout on her behalf. _Horrified_," she added for emphasis.

A funereal silence followed her lecture, and, as it continued, she wondered if her own friends were destined to run her out of Kirkwall on a fence rail. Fortune smiled at her as she realized she hadn't actually seen any wooden fences in the city, which was the first bit of relief she'd felt since the beginning of the conversation.

Finally, Varric cleared his throat, and if he was a bit misty-eyed nobody chose to remark upon it, much to Grace's further relief. "True enough, Hawke, true enough. Now, whose sodding bet was it?" he demanded, grabbing his mug in one hand and his cards in the other.

It was well after midnight by the time Grace had lost enough money at cards to assuage her guilt for her earlier commentary. She felt the tiniest bit tipsy, but confident that she could make it home without an escort, as it seemed Fenris had decided he would just look in on Isabela before he headed back to Hightown, and Sebastian was curled up in a corner gently snoring off his wee dram…or twenty. Norah had thrown a disreputable and tattered blanket over his gleaming white armor, complaining that the glare from it was giving her a headache.

"Wait and I'll walk you home, Hawke," Varric said, standing and swaying gently to an invisible band playing a silent melody.

"Yes, and then I'll be forced to walk you home and then you'll insist on walking me home and we'll spend the remaining hours of the night walking instead of sleeping. I think I can manage any ruffians who accost me."

"No shit," he muttered as he made his way to the stairs. "Just don't get into any trouble."

There's no surer way to get into trouble than to be told to avoid it, Grace reflected ten minutes later as she pulled out her dagger. The ruffians, no more than four in number, were young and dressed pitifully, their weapons dull and rusty. She wouldn't die from a wound inflicted by any of them; it was the infection from their grime-encrusted butcher knives that would do her in.

As it turned out, it was not a knife that did her in, but a wayward elbow that clipped her temple, sending her crashing against a marbled column. Reeling from the impact, and seeing more than a few shining stars, she tried to give chase to the miscreants only to watch as they slithered into the shadows. With her coin purse, she realized, letting out a booming roar of outrage.

Lights came up in several of the houses facing the square and a door nearby opened. Grace, ears ringing as much from her howl as the concussion she was sure she had suffered at the hands of the brutish thugs, sat down with an abruptness that jolted her spine and tailbone, closing her eyes against the impossibly bright lights from a nearby estate.

"Serah Hawke, I admit I _am_ surprised," a familiar, and entirely unwelcome, voice remarked with studied disdain.

She struggled to stand again, a feat made more difficult by her need to glare at the seneschal who stood before her, a lamp in one hand and a sneer on his lips. Really, it was after midnight and he was still dressed as neatly as if he was just leaving for work. Was he never rumpled? Were his clothes never wrinkled and well-worn?

"Excellent! I'll be sure to make note of your surprise in my next journal entry," she muttered caustically, if a bit theatrically, wiping her hands on her baggy trousers. "In the meantime, as I don't actually carry my journal with me, and if I had it would have been taken by the hooligans who absconded with my coin, do you suppose you could send someone for the city guard?"

Seneschal Bran gave her an appraising look, holding the lamp high. No doubt she looked quite attractive in her brother's heavy woolen trousers and her father's plain linen work-shirt, both of an indistinct color falling somewhere between drab and dreary. In point of fact, she wore those clothes at night to deter the very type of tomfoolery that had occurred.

"Perhaps sometime sooner rather than later, _before_ they are lost in the bowels of Darktown?" she prompted, before turning away from the glaringly bright light of the lamp he was holding aloft. No doubt, she thought uncharitably, so she might better see his utter disdain for her.

"Come inside," he ordered coldly.

Inside? She let out a hissing sound as she realized exactly where she was. Only the capricious whim of a demented god would have placed her altercation with the horrible little thugs in front of the seneschal's estate. She found she was gritting her teeth, which only caused her head to ache more fiercely.

"No thank you, it's a bit late for a social call, after all. I wouldn't want to sully your reputation."

"As you wish, Serah Hawke. However, when you pass out, as I am convinced you will given the way your eyes are wandering in different directions, I insist that you do so in front of someone else's home."

_Surly old civil servant_. She allowed herself to stare down her nose at him, which did nothing to mollify her pounding headache. "How very gracious of you. It's a wonder, truly, why there isn't a veritable procession of Hightown high-steppers coming to call on you at all hours of the day and night."

"Avail yourself of your free will, serah, and do as you wish."

Without waiting for her response, which she was having trouble formulating because her head was too busy screaming recriminations at her, the man turned on his heel and walked stiffly up the steps.

For reasons she would never understand, she disobeyed the voice in her head that was shouting for her to run, instead following him as he entered his home. And to further confound and baffle her, she sat quietly as he tended her injuries with surprisingly gentle hands. Obviously she was actually unconscious out in the square because the man before her most certainly wasn't the pompous provocateur she usually dealt with.

"I am afraid that I must rescind my offer to tutor you, serah."

There was very little in the way of regret in his tone, immediately raising her hackles. And why did she feel put upon by his announcement? Hadn't she been proclaiming her intention to refuse his offer all day? She frowned, pushing his hand, which was gently dabbing at her cheek with a soft cloth, aside. "Why is that?" she asked, a challenge ill-concealed in her tone.

"My reasons are my own," he replied, the gentleness that she'd witnessed in his touch not extending to his voice, which was as cool and condescending as ever.

"You can't renege on that, you…you…" she began, her offended sensibilities leaping into action to quash her brain. She stood, glaring at him, shaking a finger in his not altogether unattractive face.

"The viscount assured my mother you had offered to assist me. I should have known you never had any intention of doing so, you - you disingenuous dissimulator!"

She saw the briefest flare of anger, quickly staunched by a bored expression. "I can't imagine a more distasteful task," he replied with a pretentious sniff.

"All the more reason for you to honor your word," Grace replied, feeling triumphant and buoyed by her perfect logic.

Moments ticked silently by as she watched the veiled expression on the seneschal's face. "Very well, Serah Hawke. Report to my office tomorrow morning before nine bells, and, lest you think to do so, do not wear those grubby rags to the keep."

Sweeping out of the room, she very carefully did not slam his heavy oak door, but her fingers trembled to do so. Her anger carried her along the squares until she was home. A sleepy Orana stood waiting for her and Grace shunted her off to bed before climbing the winding staircase to her own room, suddenly exhausted, though her headache had finally departed .

She was just drifting off to sleep when it occurred to her that she might have fallen victim to a man more devious than she had initially imagined. Obviously he, too, had a flair for the dramatic.

She punched her pillow, demanding sleep claim her. It adamantly refused.


	3. The Talented Serah Hawke

**The Talented Serah Hawke**

An eye opened and closed as soon as the light struck it. A groan issued forth, followed by a pitiful moan. Her head felt as though it had become intimate with a brick wall, her tongue seemed to be wrapped in swaddling and she had a vague recollection of being…attacked!

She bolted upright, causing the room to dip and sway and her stomach to follow suit. She'd been roughed up by a group of ruffians and that obstreperous, obdurate and thoroughly odious seneschal had taken advantage of her weakened state. No doubt, she thought sourly, to appease his sadistically tyrannical nature.

Feeling ill-used, put-upon and woozy, she dragged herself through her morning ablutions, determined to have a word with the man responsible for her present predicament. She also felt a trip to see Anders about a possible concussion might not go amiss. She was not nearly as stubborn as others considered her to be, although she'd be thrice cursed by Andraste before she'd admit any such thing.

The bells of the chantry tolled eight times, triggering a shadowy fragment of memory in her discontented head. Had he really told her what _not_ to wear for their morning meeting? Was he really that obtuse? Well, obviously not. He had played her with the consummate finesse of a champion cardsharp. And she had been the perfect gudgeon, damn her contumacity.

Eschewing her customary apparel, she reached into her armoire – eyes closed – and grabbed the first garment that her fingers came across. A dung-colored linen dress with surprisingly bright orange trim and laces was clutched in her hands. She wasn't entirely sure how she had come by such a hideous garment, but it was sure to upset the fastidious fustian.

Her mother barely glanced up from her correspondence when she entered the morning room. "Good morning, dear. You look quite dreadful. Were you out carousing with your companions again?"

"No, Mother, I was too busy being attacked by a group of bandits to actually carouse with anyone. And thank you for the lovely compliment. I did spend quite some time on choosing the proper _habiliment_ and then there was the tedious time consumed in perfecting my _toilette_. Are you going to eat that other scone?"

"You really must visit Madame Pelletier, the mantua-maker, dear. She's quite the rage and very talented. Shall I send a note round to her?"

A snicker really didn't do justice to such a preposterous notion so Grace went with a loud bark of laughter and immediately regretted it as her head shrieked in dismay. "I think not, Mother, but I do appreciate your altogether altruistic advisement in the matter of my attire."

"Is that a note of irony I detect?" her mother asked as she poured tea from a newly acquired and perfectly gaudy porcelain teapot. Wealth and taste did not necessarily walk hand in hand. Were those pink peacocks, painted with such extravagant detail, gracing the belly of the teapot? Somehow, it seemed an appropriate choice for her mother.

"If you must ask, apparently not a strong _enough_ note of irony."

Companionable silence settled over the breakfast table, and, by her third cup of tea, Grace thought she might actually survive her ordeal from the previous night. But if she delayed over breakfast much longer she would not have time to stop by Anders's clinic before she met with the seneschal. It was a testament to her aching head that she couldn't manage an appropriately insulting sobriquet for the man.

As she was about to excuse herself, her mother looked at her fully, her smile designed to pull at the heartstrings. "My dear, as a particular favor to your mother, please find something of a less outrageous nature to wear while you are out and about. It is not for my benefit that I make this request, but yours, Grace. Everything you do reflects upon the Amell and Hawke names. If you will not do it for the Amells, please show your father's name some pity."

Guilt, apparently, was something a mother wielded regardless of her current station in life. She'd been masterful at it in Lothering and she was even more so in Kirkwall. "Very well, Mother, but I do so under duress."

"Better to be under duress than underdressed," her mother replied with a smile.

Grace groaned. "That…that was horrible, even for you, Mother."

After changing into her leather armor, she decided she didn't have time to go all the way to Darktown and back before nine bells. As much as she wanted to tweak Bran Drummond's nose by being late for their appointment, she decided the subsequent lecture from her mother was not worth it.

She moved briskly along the paved walkways, nodding at several of her neighbors. At least the Arenbergs were dressed and behaving civilly to each other, Grace reflected, smirking as she recalled the last time she'd seen them. They'd been making up after a fight…in front of anyone foolish enough or fortunate enough, depending on one's point of view, to be within the vicinity of their front door. Grace had hurried Sandal into the house and he immediately demanded pie and salamanders. Or perhaps, on thinking on the matter, he was requesting salamander pie. With Sandal, one could never be sure just what his meaning might be.

Taking the steps two at a time, she entered the keep with a nod to the guardsmen holding open the door. More than a dozen people milled around the grand foyer, the murmur of voices like the distant roar of the surf. Of course, a good number of people paused to view the newcomer and Grace's smile flashed at the appalled glances her leather armor provoked.

"I've been waiting here all day."

Grace overheard the complaint from a dandified gentleman she passed by on her way up to the seneschal's office. It wasn't even nine bells yet and he was squawking about waiting all day? He'd have made a horrible refugee, where waiting weeks just to start the paperwork to enter Kirkwall wasn't unusual. As the keep's doors weren't unlocked until eight bells, he hadn't even waited a full hour. Apparently a noble's time was much more valuable than a refugee's.

The door to the seneschal's office was open, but the imperious man was nowhere to be seen. She was tempted to rifle through the stack of papers on his desk, but with her luck, he'd walk in and catch her in the act. Instead, she headed for the most comfortable looking chair in the spacious office and hurled herself into it, stretching out her leather-clad legs and lacing her fingers behind her head.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Was she badly hurt?"

"Fortunately, the brigand hit her on the head. I doubt, given how hard _that_ is, she'll suffer any ill-effects from the incident. Still, it is cause for concern. Captain Aveline's guards are not performing their duties as they ought. I recommend a meeting with her at your earliest convenience, Your Grace."

Bran waited patiently for the viscount to agree to his recommendation. There were moments when his friendship with Marlowe made his appointment as seneschal entirely too complicated. Now was such a time. He would prefer to sit down and discuss the necessity of hiring more city guardsmen, friend to friend. However, given the additional cost on the city's already strained budged, as seneschal he could not.

"Yes, I suppose you're right, Bran, but she's an altogether frightening woman. Have you ever once seen her smile?"

"Brevity is a most desirous trait in a guard-captain, Your Grace."

"If you 'Your Grace' me once more this morning, I will rethink your continued employment," Marlowe Dumar replied with a glare that most would consider laughable.

"Rethink it all you like, Your Grace, but I shall be here tomorrow and the day after that, as well as the next, and the next, _ad infinitum_. This office ceases to function when I have the temerity to take even a day's leave."

Bran was unable to mask the pride that underscored his words. He might not be the viscount, or hold a high rank among the nobles, but he was the consummate seneschal. Not that he'd been nearly as effective a seneschal during Perrin Threnhold's reign. He resolutely turned his thoughts away from the painful memory, but they persisted, despite his resolve.

He'd been warned by Marlowe that Threnhold was a tyrant who would meet a grim and well-deserved death, but in those days, Bran was an idealist, believing that the office of the viscount could serve a deeper purpose. It hadn't taken long for that naivety to be stripped away.

"She is rather lovely, when she's not being completely outrageous. What do you suppose motivates her to such behavior?"

Bran blinked, turning his gaze to study the viscount. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, to whom are you referring?"

Marlowe laughed lightly, pulling the newly placed stack of papers to him. "Your wager, and, I warrant, your headache. She's lovely, if a bit wild."

"Is she? That is difficult to ascertain, given the amount of dirt attached to her."

"Deny it if you will, Bran, but I know you. You've always had an eye for beauty. I very much regret the wager now, I'm sure I'll lose."

Bran allowed himself a brief smile. "Indeed you will, Your Grace. Now, if you will excuse me, the subject of that wager is no doubt ransacking my office even as we speak."

The viscount's chuckle followed him across the waiting area to his own office, where the woman in question appeared to be napping. He took a moment to study her. She was not a classic beauty. Her nose was a bit short, her eyes a trifle large, her chin a tad square. He supposed there was a certain appeal in the delicacy of her bone-structure, and in the fullness of her lips which would make his task easier.

"Have you quite finished cataloging my many deficiencies?" the woman he was gazing at inquired in a dry tone, with just a hint of anger underscoring it. Bran felt an unfamiliar heat in his cheeks and realized she had, for the second time since they'd met, caused him to blush.

"It may take a few moments longer, Serah Hawke; the list is quite extensive."

Her eyes narrowed and she sat up, her mouth turning down. "Obviously it is impossible for you to spend two minutes in my company without insulting me. But I warn you, Seneschal Bran, I am not some shrinking violet who will meekly accede to your authority. Nor will I tolerate your aspersions on, or derisions and denunciations of, my character or my looks."

He was silent as he considered his words very carefully. He wasn't sure why he didn't just shrug the bet off and go about his life as he always had. Every survival instinct he possessed called out that she was dangerous, but he found himself nodding curtly.

"I will endeavor not to cause offense," he replied, and he wondered if the amusement in his tone would cause another outburst from her. When it did not, his shoulders relaxed, and he refused to acknowledge the brief flare of disappointment. "Now, let us _catalog_ your talents and abilities. I need to assess where we should begin."

She stood up with the grace of a dancer and moved to a chair across from his desk. He felt his hope rise. Perhaps she wouldn't require the amount of work he had first thought. But, as he continued to quiz her, he realized he'd been too optimistic. When the last question was asked and answered, he looked down at his list, trying to hide his disheartenment. She could neither recite poetry nor play an instrument. She could not sing, she claimed, nor did she know any dance other than the Remigold, which was, he gathered, some type of Fereldan folk dance involving a great deal of shuffling and bobbing. Her list of preferred reading did not include the classics, and seemed to consist of military history and tawdry romances; a peculiar pairing best ignored. She had no idea how to properly curtsy, even less who required one.

"You do own gowns, do you not?" he asked, looking up from his notes.

"I do, though I doubt anyone as finicky and pernickety as you would approve of them. Will you be coming home with me to weed out all those heinous, hideous and horrific items of apparel you find abhorrent?"

Bran carefully placed his quill in the inkpot and, with slow deliberation, looked at her, refusing to rise to such transparent bait. "It should not come as a surprise to me that I am not permitted to cast aspersions on your character, Serah Hawke, but you are at liberty to offend and insult me at every opportunity, yet I find I _am_ surprised by the hypoc – excuse me, that might be considered insulting - _capriciousness _of such an action."

That, Bran thought wryly, had not been at all what he'd intended to say but he found himself unwilling to retract his words. He noted her blush and the quickly lowered lids as his words hit their intended mark.

"Point taken, Seneschal Bran," she admitted ruefully, offering him a flashing smile that very nearly disarmed him.

He raised a brow, unable to trust her sudden shift to repentant, charming woman, or his reaction to it. He waited for a caustic follow-on and when none was forthcoming he wasn't sure if he was relieved or dissatisfied.

"As to your wardrobe, I will stop by this evening and inventory it. What you wear, and don't wear, as well as how you wear it, is of great importance, I assure you. A first impression is often the only impression people form."

Any softening in her disposition disappeared at his words. "If that is true, this becomes an exercise in futility as I am certain I have caused effrontery to those of the noble class."

"I doubt most have taken notice of you at all, Serah Hawke."

"Grace! My name is Grace! I would prefer it to the scornful, scathing manner with which you call me _Serah Hawke_, as if I was the basest, most repulsive bit of refuse ever placed before you."

Bran lowered his head to hide his smile. She would unquestionably disrupt his life in ways he had yet to imagine. Even so, he could not help but admire her spontaneity and her refusal to be dismissed for who she was. She had a natural gift for language and accents, he noted, and that would make the elocution lessons much easier.

"If that is your preference."

"It is."

"Very well, so be it."

"Good."

"As you say."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Say it, you impossibly obstinate man!"

"The first order of business will be to rein in your temper," he responded, once more taking up his quill and making a note on the vellum that was already covered with his neat script.

Without another word, she strode to his door and opened it with such force he expected it to come off its hinges. To his relief, and surprise, she shut it very quietly behind her. He was still smiling as he went in search of the guard-captain several minutes later.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The Rusty Cock had entered the world as the Fox and Cockerel. When it had originally opened, a sign had hung over the establishment proudly proclaiming itself a purveyor of tasty spirits. Above the sign were the cast-iron likenesses of a fox and a rooster. The pair of brothers, who had decided a tavern was a worthy investment of time and coin, had a falling-out over a tavern wench and Michael, owner of the fox, had taken his cast-iron vulpine statue and departed for greener pastures.

The tavern went into a slow decline after his egression and the original sign became obscured and faded by time. Now, the proud proclamation, if read out loud, was: purve of tits. The cast-iron cockerel rusted until the place became known by the locals as the Rusty Cock. Oddly, it wasn't until the nickname became common knowledge that the place became a popular haunt for an eclectic mix of society.

Once a week, leaving the pleasantly pious Sebastian, the sweetly naïve Merrill and the commanding captain Aveline behind, her companions journeyed to the Rusty Cock for a night of guiltless frivolity. There were even times when Anders - who drank only in moderation and only with Justice's approval and supervision - and Isabela performed for the raucous crowds. On the rarest of occasions, Grace had been known to join them, but only after reconnoitering from the shadows to ensure none of her mother's friends were among the patrons.

Grace knew, with a certainty born of cynicism, that one day she would have to curtail her visits to the popular tavern. With her mother intent on becoming a social butterfly who insisted on dragging her social moth of a daughter with her, the nights of unrivaled revelry courtesy of the Rusty Cock were coming to an end. She announced so, rather melodramatically, that evening.

Fenris, busy demonstrating his distaste for the distilled decoctions offered at the establishment, didn't bother to hide his approval at her declaration. He inclined his head with a sagacious nod. "A prudent decision, Hawke," he concurred.

Grace leaned across the table and flicked the tip of his ear with her finger. A howl-turned-hiss of surprise issued forth and he rubbed gingerly at the tender spot, stopping short of glaring at her. She smiled sweetly at him. "That was for your use of offensive language; you've nobody to blame but yourself."

He frowned, his black brows knitting together until he appeared to have a black caterpillar crawling across his forehead. He was, naturally, completely bewildered, but before he could voice the question in his eyes, Varric spoke around a chuckle. "Never tell a lovely young woman she's prudent, Broody. It's tantamount to saying she is fine. Or, worse, boring."

"I'll kiss it and make it all better," Isabela purred, wiggling closer to the elf, whose knitted brows unknit long enough to fly upwards in a moment of unadulterated panic.

"Hey, Anders, give us a song, mate!" shouted an intoxicated patron.

Anders, beaming so brightly that Grace felt temporarily blinded by the glare of it, stood up and waved at the drunken man who'd called out for a song. "Only if I can persuade the lovely pirate captain to join me!"

As if Isabela needs persuading, Grace thought with a laugh. Others in the crowded tavern took up a chant of "Bela! Bela!" and stomped their feet in approval. Grace took advantage of the distraction to meld into the shadows and see who, of the upper reaches of Hightown, were amongst the common riff-raff. So far it looked as though the closest person to Hightown was a merchant from the Hightown market, an Orlesian who always smelled strongly of garlic and cheap wine, named Hubert. After another quick perusal of the pub, she sat back down at her table, reaching for the bottle of whiskey.

Isabela was lifted onto a table, where she proceeded to sing the bawdiest sea shanty Grace had heard to date. Anders smiled lasciviously and joined in, his performance over the top. Or perhaps, Grace considered through a pleasant whiskey haze, it had been too long a dry spell for him. The crowd, naturally, roared their approval and banged their mugs loudly for more.

"Not another song unless our favorite bird of prey joins us!" Isabela cried out, pointing at Grace.

"No, I will absolutely, unequivocally, definitely not join you!" Grace called back amidst the growing clamor of drunken voices calling out for her to join the others.

"You might as well, Hawke; just consider it a swan song," Varric encouraged. Fenris snickered at that and gave her a friendly nudge.

"What could possibly go wrong?" the dwarf continued, no doubt emboldened by the crowd's boisterous demands.

"Fine, fine," Grace said ungraciously, pushing her glass away and standing up.

After a brief consultation with her friends, Grace reached out to the crowd and grabbed a tatty, ragged old hat, plopping it on her head. They would perform their 'Refugee' song as they called it, a song they had performed countless times for the denizens of the lower regions of Kirkwall. Next she rolled her trousers up to her knees and untucked her shirt. Holding her cupped hands out in the age old pose of a beggar, her Fereldan accent thick and coarse, she began:

"_It seems as if the Blight's in town, I'll take me 'cross the Waking Sea.  
Mmmmmmmmm.  
But now the bloomin' Marcher guards are talkin' 'bout a Dog Lord fee."  
I told you this is what we get for trustin' rellies with our plea.  
Mmmmmm, Mmmmm, wouldn't it be loverly?"_

Anders stepped forward and took up the song as she stepped back.

"_All I want is a Darktown lair,  
Far away from the Gallows, there.  
One tabby or a pair,  
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?"_

Next, Isabela started singing, her voice husky with innuendo.

"_Lots of partners along the docks,  
A healer close if I catch the pox,  
Warm face, warm 'ands, warm…"_

Grace clapped her hand over Isabela's mouth. "Socks! I'm sure that's what she was going to say!" she piped up with a grin, removing her hand. Isabela, tossing her a playful scowl, ended with:

"_Oh, wouldn't it be loverly."_

Grace stepped forward and sang in a very clear, precise and correct manner:

"_Oh, so loverly, from my Hightown manse I can view  
All those unlucky refugees like you, you and you!"_ she finished, pointing at other refugees in the crowd.

With a deep breath, she pitched her voice low and rough, staring at Fenris as she began to sing.

"_Dead guys rot in the front hallways,  
I soak up wine while my home decays,  
Now watch my Polonaise!  
Oh wouldn't it be loverly.  
Loverly, loverly.  
Loverly, loverly."_

Isabela and Anders joined her for another chorus and then they ended with a flourishing bow, Grace nearly tumbling off the table into the group of men surrounding it. She jumped off the table and made her way through the men to the table where Fenris was waiting, his glare almost menacing.

Her smile widened. "Consider this carefully before you harm me, Fenris. I did a fair job of imitating your voice, which should mitigate your desire to punch my nose," she teased, ruffling his white hair to further outrage him.

"I am not perturbed at being mocked and humiliated in front of this inebriated assemblage, Hawke, but rather that you think I dance the polonaise, when I have graduated to much more advanced steps."

Laughter rippled through her and she sank down in the chair beside him, wiping the tears away. "Were I ever to sing that song again, I would correct it. A gavotte, do you think? It rhymes quite nicely with rot."

But as suddenly as they were all chuckling and celebrating, quiet descended and a shadow fell across the table. Grace looked up and promptly choked on her whiskey. It burned all the way to her stomach, her nose tingled from it, and her eyes watered uncontrollably. She rubbed them, hoping the apparition would disappear but the seneschal, dressed in plain dark clothing that accented his red hair and finely chiseled features…no, no, he was an officious prude with a penchant for torture! She took another drink. Yes, there the pernicious old prig was. Much better.

"Good evening, Seneschal Bran," she said, striving for, and mastering, a nonchalant tone. He didn't look in the least amused, or for that matter, as if he believed it to be a good evening. In point of fact, he looked quite displeased. Her smile grew.

"Were you merely practicing your skills in the art of prevarication this morning, Serah Hawke?"

"Don't you dare impugn my reputation by intimating I prevaricate, you reprehensible man!"

"Impugn your reputation? That is a soupcon overstated, do you not agree? Did you not declare this morning that you could not sing?"

"I can't."

"Ah, but the Rusty Cock would disagree."

She couldn't help it. Having the impeccable, pedantic, _rusty-haired_ seneschal utter the words rusty and cock in the same breath gave her laughter permission to reappear and for several moments she couldn't speak.

"In my defense I can't actually sing. I can merely mimic others I have heard sing. It's a gift." And a curse, she mentally amended.

The sounds of chairs scraping along the wooden floor distracted her and she glanced round to see that her friends, the poltroons, had disappeared, leaving her alone with an unhappy looking seneschal, who quietly sat down and poured a rather large helping of whiskey into a glass, draining it in one swallow, with nary a shiver to be had. Grace was impressed with his drinking prowess but didn't comment, waiting for him to speak because he looked as though he had a great many things he wanted to say.

"It will be a very long six months," he said only.

She was inclined to agree.

**A/N:** _The song is sung to the tune of "Wouldn't It Be Loverly" from My Fair Lady. The lyrics were written by the very talented Oleander'sOne, with a tiny bit of fiddling in a few areas by me, which probably mucked it up. So, sorry and thank you Ole!  
Thank you, Lisa, your beta goodness is much appreciated.  
A huge thanks to those lurking, reading, alerting and especially to those taking the time to review!_


	4. Ruffles and Flourishes

**Ruffles and Flourishes**

She had expected the slaughter, yet it devastated her nonetheless. She had taken his measure the moment she'd first met him and knew him to be capable of such ruthless butchery, yet had done nothing to protect the innocents. Their premature demise could be laid directly at her doorstep and her grief hardened into anger. She would make the heartless, merciless, murdering blackguard pay dearly for the desecration.

Dressing quickly, she slid her dagger into her waistband with a quiet _snick_ of leather and metal, tucked her hair under a low-brimmed cap, and, with nary a farewell for the dearly departed, she stalked the streets of Hightown until she was standing at the steps of Viscount's Keep. The coldblooded cutthroat would atone for his carnage, of that she was certain. Testing the sharpness of her blade against an unwitting strand of her hair, she was satisfied it would perform most admirably.

She took the stairs two at a time and when the guards pulled open the large steel doors and she entered the great hall, she stood, gathering both her strength and her breath, as her lungs had proven no match for the long series of stairs that led from street level to the heights of power. She really was getting entirely too soft now that she'd given up mercenary work. She might have to reconsider that ill-conceived notion, not for the sake of the gold, which was paltry, but because her fettle was no longer fine.

Standing outside the office of the malicious, malevolent assassin, she took one final steadying breath before easing the door open and slipping into the office, gently closing the door behind her. She took several steps into the cavernous room, each footfall carefully placed to ensure quietude. The figure, head bent over a stack of correspondence, was without remorse or regrets. That would change, or she'd be thrice damned by the Maker, who, she felt certain, had no inclination to damn her even once, since he had apparently turned his back on her, and all his children, long ago.

What came out of her mouth was entirely unexpected and equally unwelcome.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You failed to explain your appearance last night. How did you come by the Rusty Cock?" Grace asked, stalking into his office and hurling herself into an overstuffed chair in a most unladylike, and decidedly ungraceful, fashion.

"Need I remind you of just how wet the seasons are here in Kirkwall?" Bran shot back, never looking up from the missive a very angry Madame Delacara had sent regarding a mabari running amok in her marigolds.

When no lighthearted persiflage was forthcoming, he glanced up and heard an odd gurgling sound emanating from her; presumably a laugh cut short, or perhaps she had merely choked. Maker's breath, was she actually wearing a dock-man's attire like some common tatterdemalion?

No doubt her current mode of dress would be laid at his doorstep as he had removed a number of offensive items from her wardrobe the previous evening before he'd found himself at the Rusty Cock. _Offensive_ seemed too mild a word to describe the atrocities he had found hanging in her armoire, but it was the only word that came to mind at present.

He frowned, remembering the heinous crimes of fashion he had discovered…from a dung-colored gown to a grey shirt he felt certain had started its long life as white, he'd been ruthless in winnowing the abhorrent items from the tolerable. The items that _had _remained behind were hardly worthy of salvaging but he was reluctant to leave her sans apparel, fearing she would take that as an advisement to stroll the streets of Hightown in her smalls.

He needn't have been concerned as she'd managed to find something outrageous despite his efforts. Did she hide such items at one of her disreputable companion's homes? Did they even have homes? Most of them appeared to spend all their free time in the prodigious number of seedy taverns that dotted the streets and back alleys of Lowtown.

His frown, naturally, had absolutely no influence on her; she merely smiled with a determined glint in her blue eyes. The wickedly aggravating woman was deliberately provoking him and finding a great deal of amusement in doing so. He refused to be goaded by her infantine behavior, despite his burning need to ring a peal over her. Not, he conceded reluctantly, that a lecture would have any effect at all. Instead, he decided to resort to more devious methods of ensuring her wardrobe was brought up to standard. And perhaps a bit of retribution was in order as well. His smile, he was sure, bordered on feral, or at least he hoped so. Not, he relented, that her reactions were ever as one might predict or hope for.

"What is it you wish, Serah Hawke? Our appointment is not for another hour. I have much to accomplish before that time," he asked with cool disdain. "Although I am hardly surprised by your lack of appreciation for those who actually work for a living."

"You are incredibly picksome, Ser Seneschal. In point of fact, one would be remiss if one did not include that you are shockingly high in the instep, as well."

"Such perspicacious observations of my character, Serah Hawke; a marvelously _scintillating_ appraisement and spoken with _unparalleled_ refinement. Until this very moment I was uncertain just how you perceived me. Now, however, I see that you believe me to be both fussy and arrogant."

A bright smile lit her face, and for a brief instant he was in danger of lowering his guard. She gave him a broad wink and the moment was gone, but he found he'd returned her smile despite his desire to the contrary. He cast it aside in favor of returning to his work, asking with feigned indifference, "Was there something in particular you wanted?"

"Besides the obvious?"

"At the risk of sending you into the boughs yet again, _what_ is obvious?"

"I want my clothes back."

"That, I am afraid, is quite outside the realm of possibility."

"What do you mean?" the offended woman demanded and Bran was forced to look away lest she see the triumphant gleam in his eyes. She was astoundingly easy to bait and he found it nearly impossible to resist the temptation at every turn.

When he didn't answer, she continued with a mocking tone, "Oh, wait, allow me to postulate. You've hoarded them, and, when no one is about, you dress in them and mince around your mansion in the hope of understanding how the poor unfortunates of Kirkwall live."

Bran coughed, a chuckle trapped in his throat. He cleared said throat and spoke in his most officious manner, one he had perfected as Viscount Dumar's seneschal. "I mean, Serah Hawke, the ragman has them. I shouldn't imagine they required much work to become rags, and he seemed delighted to have acquired them. Although he did feel several items were too far gone to become decent rags."

She was up, moving with that catlike grace that was so unexpected in one of such unrefined manners. She nodded, a patently false smile resting far too easily on her lips. "How extraordinarily beneficent of you, Seneschal Bran, truly."

As there was more than a modicum of disparagement in her tone, Bran continued to read the document currently in his hand, which was a dissertation on the merits of assigning a permanent attachment of soldiers to the Bone Pit Mine. He tossed that on the growing pile of correspondence not worthy of the viscount's perusal. It promised to be an inconveniently trying day.

"Yes, that is a trait universally ascribed to me, Serah Hawke, I thank you."

Giving up any hope of having his office to himself, he set aside the remainder of his correspondence with great care, already regretting the vanity that had made him leave his gold-rimmed pince-nez at home. His need for the spectacles had grown stronger in the past year and he'd gone through a plethora of humiliating 'remedies' hoping to defer the need for them for at least another year or two. One such incident revolved around a thoroughly debasing trip to the docks in answer to an ad in the weekly newspaper that had promised improved eyesight, and which had, in fact, turned out to be eye-drops that, when used, had caused his eyes to swell shut.

The burning, itching sensation caused by the remedy had forced him to seek out a healer in Darktown, a companion of Grace Hawke's, naturally, and she had overheard the indiscreet healer's remonstration to avoid the docks in future. As the healer had mentioned both the burning and the itching without the context of where said burning and itching were, the disparaging titters Bran had heard upon his departure had both annoyed and embarrassed him. He was, however, resolute in his refusal to discuss that debacle with the woman currently slouched in the chair across from his desk.

"Is it your intention to disturb my work until the hour of your appointment?" he asked, his voice imbued with the slightest hint of frustration.

"It is my intention to disturb your work until such time as my clothes are returned to me."

"If that is truly your intention, Serah Hawke…"

"Grace," she interrupted.

"…I shall arrange for Nerline to bring in bed linens for you. Although, I have always found this room to be incommodious, Serah Hawke."

"Should you deign to address me by my given name, I might be encouraged to reconsider my decision to remain in your office."

"As you wish," he replied coolly, refusing to do so.

"Your obstinacy will only cause you further aggravation. I am not in the least perturbed by the wait," she purred, smiling sweetly.

Bran had allowed himself to be backed into a corner by his own pride and vanity. He was determined not to let the incorrigible minx win the round. He pulled the papers close and bent over them, equally determined not to hold them at arm's length that he might more easily read them sans spectacles. Not, he reflected with no small amount of irony, that he hadn't already created a spectacle.

"As you will, Serah Hawke."

"Impossible, intractable, inflexible man!"

"Bumptious, fractious, pertinacious woman," he replied with regal disdain.

She tilted her head, studying him and then smiled. "Pertinacious? Oh, I _do_ like that word. I will hazard a guess, Ser Seneschal, that there is not a more stubborn person in all of Kirkwall than you, however."

And with that, she stood and walked calmly out of his office, leaving him to wonder whether throttling her into submission or kissing the sass out of her was a better option. A thought that appeared unannounced and unwanted, and which he promptly ignored as he looked down at his work.

She returned ten minutes later at the previously agreed upon time. He was going to have to hire an amanuensis for the next six months if he had any hope of performing his duties in a timely fashion.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Rain appeared the minute Grace refused the viscount's cordial invitation to have tea with him. Pride would not allow her to retract her words. Instead, she pulled out a disreputable cap from her pocket and tucked her hair underneath it, before hurrying down the steps of the keep and right into a wall. The impact sent her reeling back and she stumbled on the steps, convinced she would fall, only to have an iron grip descend on her arm and hold her firmly, a deep, cold voice exclaiming, "Have a care, boy!"

"You would do well to…" Grace began in a heated voice only to lose not only her heat but her voice as well when she looked up into the face of the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on.

The object of her perusal was a tall, well-built man very close in age to her. His eyes appeared to be deep green with flecks of brown, amber and gold in them. His hair, long and pulled back in a queue, was a deep black, the shade that took on a dark blue tint in certain lights. His features were even, well-proportioned and Maker-blessed in their perfection.

"Yes? I would do well to…what?" he asked, a spark of humor removing the coolness that had marked his early tone.

She found herself grinning like some deranged simpleton, completely unable to speak. The man's voice, foreign, but not with the usual Orlesian flourishes, made her want to commit obscene acts. Escape was essential. She jerked her arm out of his grasp and went flying down the steps, in search of a dark hole to crawl into. Home would have to do.

She ran along the square as the skies opened up, the lightning sizzling and thunder rumbling. She was completely drenched by the time she arrived at the door of the Amell estate. In fact, she was no longer able to run, so water-logged and heavy were her boots that they squelched loudly as she walked across the foyer.

"Please, dear, never tell me that you have gone out in such a costume?"

As water was dripping from her hat, her nose and various extremities, she felt such a faradiddle would be quite unbelievable. Obviously she had, indeed, gone out in such a costume. And, as he was wont, the Maker had seen fit to cast rain at her for her impudence. Ignoring her mother, she slogged upstairs, Orana following with a wail for her poor mistress. Or perhaps her cries had more to do with the water dripping all over the newly installed, very thick and luxurious carpet. Grace noted wryly that the water was being absorbed at an astonishing rate, much more quickly than the towel she was using to dry off with.

A light tap at her door some minutes later and a tray, complete with hot tea and fresh raspberry tarts, was brought in by her mother. Grace, wearing a dark dressing gown and a pair of scruffy slippers, was sitting before her fireplace, where a merry fire cackled at the drenched state of her hair.

"I suppose you had a hand in the seneschal's mass murder of my wardrobe?"

Her mother's eyes widened and she was about to proclaim her innocence when Grace gave an airy wave of her hand. "There is no sense in denying the matter, Lady Amell-Hawke. Your culpability is in the shape of your eyebrow and the moue sitting so blatantly on your lips."

"My darling daughter, you very much missed your calling. Such theatrics belong on the great stages of Thedas."

As her mouth was full of tart, Grace was forced to roll her eyes in response. Her mother's next words caused said tarts to be forcefully ejected.

"We have been invited to Viscount Dumar's home for an intimate dinner party this evening. He apologizes for the short notice but hopes we will see our way to joining him. Seneschal Bran will be there, as will Lord Aubrey Pentaghast, the new Nevarran ambassador, a cousin of the present king of Nevarra."

The speech was relayed with a great deal of regal pride, as well as a sizeable dollop of gloat on the side. Opening her mouth and closing it several times, Grace felt a stab of concern that she found herself once again aphonic.

"From what I have heard he is attractive and estimable in every way," her mother all but gushed. Grace could already see the cogs and gears turning as her mother began to devise ways to 'encourage' any interest shown by the epitome of elegance known as Aubrey Pentaghast.

"I am certain of his pulchritudinous glory above all others, Mother. How could he not be, given his impeccable, inimitable and nonpareil Pentaghast lineage?"

It was Leandra's turn to roll her eyes and she did so quickly, without losing any of her imperial deportment. "As to the matter of your assemblage for this evening," she began, choosing to ignore Grace's mocking incitement and thereby disappointing Grace, "I had a dress made for you quite some time ago but I was saving it for the proper occasion. I believe this to be such an occasion. I sent it to Madame Pelletier for an alteration. You seem to have acquired an extra pound or two these past few months, dear."

"Are you insinuating that I am _embonpoint_? Corpulent?" Grace accused, carefully placing her second tart back on the platter. "Porcine? Maker's mercy, never say I am pleasingly plump!" she added with feigned horror, wrist to brow. "Shall I have Orana lace me up in a steel corset, or perhaps she'll need to have Bodahn assist, given that I am quite obese? Shall I eat only a thimble-full of food this evening?"

Laughing good-naturedly, and not the least remorseful for causing her daughter irreparable damage with her ill-chosen words, her mother replied, "We leave promptly at six forty-five, Grace, and I'll expect you to be ready to do so. Your dress has been promised by six-thirty. I'll send Orana to assist with your habil-"

Grace waved a rather sticky hand at her mother, before carefully removing the last of the raspberry on her fingers. "I believe I can manage to dress myself without her assistance, thank you, Mother."

"Perhaps, but she is quite skilled with hair, and I should like to see yours pulled up in something other than a knot with a few twigs holding it in place."

"Very well, but that is the only assistance I require."

'Of course, my dear."

With that, her mother picked up the tray and left her to her own devices. Grace went through her closet, a great longing for her father and brother's shirts and trousers welling up inside her, along with a few stray tears that she brushed aside. The garments were the link between her past and her present; a way to keep those she'd lost near, and that heartless, diabolical malefactor had given them away, or destroyed them, without so much as a scintilla of remorse.

Hours later, having spent the remainder of her day concocting suitable forms of punishment for the blackguard despoiler of her clothes, Grace finally conceded that she was honor bound to fulfill the terms of the arrangement, which would not be possible if the seneschal was dead, or even indisposed. Still, she was determined that reparations would be forthcoming.

After a bath, complete with rosewater and chamomile to 'calm her nerves', according to her mother, Grace set about preparing for the upcoming meal. Orana came in with a clutch of ribbons in one hand, and a brush in the other. Reluctantly, Grace sat and allowed Orana to arrange her hair into a loose chignon, interweaving the silver ribbons throughout her hair and coaxing a curl to hang elegantly on either side of her face. The former slave was a veritable cornucopia of hidden talents.

Her new gown had yet to arrive, and she hoped it would not. There was a perfectly serviceable grey and white round-gown of wool that would be more than adequate. Or at least there had been before the butchery. Now that she thought upon it, she wasn't sure it still resided in the shadowy depths of the clothespress.

A timid knock on the door announced Orana's arrival, as well as the new gown's, if the large box was any indicator. The faint chimes announced it was precisely three-quarters of an hour after six and Orana had a message from her mother.

"Two minutes," was all the young elven servant said, before dipping a curtsy and fleeing from the room.

Standing in her stockings and shift, her dainty kid slippers at the ready, Grace nodded and opened the box to spy a frothy concoction nestled in the satin lined container. She stared at it, mouth agape, brain equally so. And then she uttered but one word: "Mother!"

The sound was not so much a cry as a shriek that embodied hysteria and rage.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Bran Drummond was aware, as soon as he had spoken with Madame Pelletier, that he had declared war on Grace Hawke. He was equally aware that she would prove a formidable adversary. He made his way along the rain-marred streets, avoiding the puddles and whistling softly. He was certainly up for the additional challenge. He felt sure she was, as well. She delighted in impaling him verbally at every opportunity and he found her an equal in that regard, if not in others.

He hadn't expected a dressmaker of such renown to take up his request immediately, setting aside Dulci De Launcet's gown in favor of the additional work he had requested of Grace Hawke's, and he was left to wonder if the woman thought a commission of gowns from Viscount Dumar was to be forthcoming. He would disabuse the woman, who proclaimed to have been seamstress in the imperial court of Celene but was actually from Darktown, born and brought up as Gertie Butterick, of any such notion. The viscount's office could not be seen to offer patronage to one particular merchant, favoring him or her above others. No, the least offense given, the less objectionable his job as seneschal was.

He wondered, very briefly, what form Grace Hawke's anger would take, and who might become a victim of collateral damage, but those thoughts were quickly overtaken by concern over the Qunari, who were proving to be renitent and discommodious. Naturally, Grace Hawke had been asked, by name, to seek out the Arishok. She was friends with a former Grey Warden, a former slave, a former pirate, a former Dalish First, a former prince, a disreputable businessman, and the Captain of the City Guard of Kirkwall. It should not surprise him that she also claimed friendship with the Arishok, he supposed, yet it was a delicate situation and he had yet to discover anything delicate about Grace Hawke.

Serendipity had, upon a recent visit for a massage, claimed she was actually quite sweet and had a wicked sense of humor, further asserting that Grace visited every fortnight for a massage and the latest tittle-tattle. Bran found that she did, in fact, possess a wicked sense of humor, but as to the other? Faradiddle and nonsense, he was sure.

Arriving at Marlowe's house exactly ten minutes early, he found the viscount in the kitchen, overseeing the meal, much to his horror. That the viscount was a gourmand was not something Bran wished the general populace to become aware of. With consummate skill born of his years in service, he guided Marlowe out of the kitchen and into the well-appointed front parlor, where a bottle of Madeira and a tray of artfully arranged cheeses sat on a low table near Marlowe's customary seat.

Marlowe poured them each a robust shot of whiskey and they silently toasted the evening as they waited for the other guests to arrive. They had just finished when the first guest was announced. Reluctantly, Bran set his glass aside to greet the new arrival.

Lord Aubrey Pentaghast, who, for reasons he had yet to determine, made Bran's head ache, strode into the room. He was evasive, to be sure. And there was the usual sense of entitlement those of the optimacy suffered from, but that wasn't it, either. Some indefinable despotism in his look or manner caused a niggling alarm in Bran. Still, it behooved the Office of the Viscount to extend every courtesy to the Nevarran delegate.

The Hawkes arrived exactly on time, which was as much a shock to Bran as to Lady Leandra, if her triumphant smile was any indicator. The younger of the two women was busy removing her cape, her back to the room as Felix, the viscount's majordomo, assisted her.

It was only through great perseverance and no amount of internal fortitude that Bran kept his polite smile from shifting into a smirk. Madame Pelletier had outdone herself in the creation and addition of the dress now gracing Grace Hawke's lithe form. Of pale pink silk, it was festooned with ruffles, flourishes and enough lace to cover a banquet table twice over. The skirt, made full by a hooped farthingale, he felt sure, was a darker pink with rows of silk ribbons adorning it. The sleeves, slashed as was the style, were positively frothy with lace, which seemed to drip down her arms. Now that she knew what he was capable of, perhaps they could reach a suitable compromise regarding her wardrobe.

Marvelous, she had even managed to include the lace mitts that had been on display in the shop window. He really must send round an additional monetary reward for the woman's assistance.

Grace offered him the cut direct, refusing to acknowledge his presence at all, instead executing a creditable, if slightly askew, curtsy to the Viscount. It was not until she was introduced to young Pentaghast that he realized how furious she was. Her control was admirable, but her eyes, glittering with rage, focused on Bran and he knew he was a man whose time could be marked in hours, if she had her way.

He wondered if she had managed to hide one of her daggers amidst the ruffles and flourishes of her gown. He would not allow himself to be lulled into complacency by the thoroughly feminine appearance of the woman whose cheeks were now the very color of her dress. Well, that was…unexpected. He glanced from her rosy cheeks to the man bringing her gloved hand up to his lips.

Perhaps his plan had been precipitous. Moments later, the woman confirmed that thought. The oleaginous upstart from Nevarra had captured Grace's eye. Not that Bran could fault her taste. The man was considered unrivaled in his looks, after all. No, it was not jealousy that made Bran's ire awaken, but the comprehension that he might lose the wager through his miscalculation of the woman now gracing Pentaghast with her most charming smile. The one that invariably made even her enemies smile at her just before she plunged a dagger through their heart, he was sure. As he was equally sure it was his heart her dagger would seek out. Rather soon, he should imagine.

She turned to him, finally, and gave him an inclination of her head, announcing to those present that she was of higher rank, a trick he had not calculated into the formula when concocting his scheme. He'd made a complete bumblebroth of the episode and if he was aware of it, he was sure his nemesis was equally cognizant of the fact.

She leaned forward, affording a view of white lace and pink silk, before whispering softly, "Seneschal Bran, I have reason to believe it is you I have to thank for the additional _frippery _of my garment. I cannot imagine how I shall ever find a way to repay you for such generosity and thoughtfulness. But rest assured, I shall find a way, even should it take me all of my days to do so."

Of that he was entirely sure. And, as if the retribution that hung with elegiac gloom over his enjoyment of the evening wasn't enough, Aubrey Pentaghast was fawning over Grace with the zeal of a fortune hunter who had espied his salvation. It appeared - to Bran's irritation - that the two had met on the steps of the Viscount's Keep that very day. What were the odds?

The evening proved interminable.

**A/N: **_Thank you, amazing beta lady, Lisa! And I hope your head isn't too fuzzy tomorrow.  
Oleander's One...thank you for the pince-nez idea. Can't imagine how much fun Grace will have when she discovers it. And I told you I'd planned on using oleaginous. _


	5. Politics and Bedfellows

**A/N:**_ Thank you for your very helpful beta, Lisa. Your keen eye and honesty are deeply appreciated._  
_Thank you to all who have alerted and favorited the story, to those lurking, and especially to those of you reviewing! _

**Politics and Bedfellows**

Breezing through the hallowed halls of the keep, where the meek and timid scrambled out of her way, Grace whistled cheerfully, nodding her head to the guardsmen she passed. The sun streamed through the high windows, radiant beams that cast a golden glow on the uniformed guards. In her arms she carried a bundle of pink, and if those watching were curious as to what exactly it was, none dared question her.

She stopped at the seneschal's office and smiled at the frightened young guardsman who stood nervously beside the closed door. "No need to look so worried, Melfor, I am not here to do anything other than return an item to the seneschal," she offered with another smile. He was not reassured, and, in fact, appeared even more frightened as she reached to open the door.

"Sorry, Serah Hawke, but Seneschal Bran left strict instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed."

Grace's smile, already stretching its limits, grew until her face ached from the effort. "Trust me, the seneschal is already _deeply_ disturbed. I doubt there is anything I could do to make him more so."

The young man's lips twitched and then settled into an unhappy line as he moved to stand in front of the door, eyes downcast. "I'm that sorry, Grace, but he'll have my nu…he'll be pi…erm…displeased if I allow you in."

Grace clutched the material in her arms and allowed her smile to tremble slightly, which, considering how wide it was currently stretched, was not difficult. "So be it, Melfor. I shall just sit over there," she added in as sad a voice as she could manage, indicating a chair set off in a corner of the ante-chamber with a nod of her head.

Still unhappy, but obviously unwilling to argue, the young man nodded and stepped to the side as soon as she was seated in the very uncomfortable chair. No doubt, she thought cynically, to keep people from waiting. Politicians were demons that had escaped the Fade, she had no doubt. Their ability to befuddle, bewilder and beguile their constituency bedeviled Grace. If they would simply tell the truth in blunt, easy to understand words, they would not be viewed with the disdain, derision and disregard they currently inspired.

The door was suddenly thrown open and a woman sailed out, head held regally, the ostrich feathers, dyed an absurd shade of purple, attached to her hat dancing in the air. Without noticing those of lesser rank, Lady Delacara continued to glide upon unseen waters as she made her way out of the antechamber. Grace gave her a brief smile and nod, unperturbed by the woman's ill-mannered 'harrumph' as she sashayed past Grace. And if it was in Grace's mind to trip the old bat on her way by, she would never admit it. Rising, she moved to enter the office of the seneschal while the door remained open.

"Grace, wai…"

"Thank you, Melfor. First drink at the Rusty Cock is on me tonight," she added and, as her hands were full of shredded ruffles and flourishes, she kicked the door shut in the young man's despondent face.

"You look particularly pale this glorious morning, Seneschal Bran. Are you feeling a trifle indisposed?" she asked brightly, adding a toothsome smile.

"I have always been under the impression that ten of the clock came after nine and before eleven, yet I see by your arrival that it is, rather, between eight of the clock and nine. How extraordinary that I have been misinformed all these years," the man said, still standing by his desk, as he had, no doubt, risen to ride in the wake of Lady Delacara as she had sailed out.

"I would not say misinformed, Seneschal Bran, merely misguided in setting the appointment so late in the morning with the presumptuous notion that _your_ time is more valuable than _my_ time. I assure you, that is not the case. Besides," she continued with another smile, the first one having given up after being unrequited, "you will concur, I'm certain, that you require an amiable, affable and altogether agreeable conversation after a visit from Lady Delacara, who is, I might add, considered quite dicked in the nob."

A sound, not unlike a bark of laughter, though quite strangled, was dispatched into a cough and the man she had addressed her remarks to bowed his head, proceeding to shake it.

"Serah Hawke, Lady Delacara is not _dicked in the nob_ or any way unhinged, as you assert. She was here, in fact, to register a complaint regarding a certain mabari that has been desecrating her venerated marigolds. As the only mabari to reside in Hightown is in your possession, I recommend you leash your delinquent hound before I am forced to act. You will concur, _I'm_ certain, that you would be quite put upon the ropes should it become necessary to incarcerate your canine."

Grace, whose temperament had been all that was sweet, felt anger push the equanimity out of the way, and she moved to him, relieving herself of the bundle. Shredded pink material drifted down like cherry blossoms in the spring, to gather around the surprised seneschal.

"I believe this abomination of apparel is rightfully yours. You will undoubtedly wish to attire yourself in this monstrosity in the future. Although, truth be told, pink is not a particularly flattering color for a redhead. However, the cut of the dress should be _quite _becoming."

Glaring at him, she realized that he wore, for the briefest moment, a look of disappointment before it was overcome by a veritable tidal wave of heat-imbued anger. As he was usually cold as a snowdrift when angry, she was surprised by the verve of his emotion. He stood abruptly, the silk and lace strips falling to the ground in a shower of pink.

"You have the manners of a street urchin, Serah, and the temper of a virago. You will –"

"Why you…you decrepit, disagreeable, decomposing capon! I –" she interrupted, only to break off as he let out another strangled noise that again sounded like he was choking or laughing; she just wasn't sure which. She frowned at him. "Should I pound you on your back? Are you choking?"

Given that his eyes were actually warm, and crinkled just a smidgeon, she supposed he might actually be laughing and it occurred to her, for all of a split second, that he was quite attractive when his face wasn't wearing its habitual hauteur. She blinked, wondering if it was too early for a shot or two of whiskey as her mind seemed intent on dragging her to places she had no desire to visit.

"Did you, with your customary comportment, just call me a rusty cock?" he inquired, humor, and not anger, now warming his tone. She'd be thrice cursed by the Maker if he didn't appear to be…was that actually a smile he'd just flashed? With his cheeks lightly flushed and his eyes warm and merry, she thought perhaps more than two shots might be needed because he seemed quite appealing. _Oh Maker, kill me now!_ She was quite sure the Hanged Man was open and equally sure that would be her very next stop.

"Did I?" she asked, feeling slightly confused by the direction the conversation had taken. She cleared her throat, reached for her earlier wrath and wrapped it around her like a cloak before poking him in the chest. "Do not, under penalty of painful persecution, extirpate or embellish my wardrobe. If you are desirous of inflicting your personal preferences onto my attire, do so in a less underhanded and bacon-brained manner!"

"I take exception to the term bacon-brained, Serah Hawke," he said stiffly, any trace of his previous warmth having decided to depart the office with alacrity.

Backing up, she folded herself into her vacated chair before speaking, striving to hide her disbelief. "You don't object to being referred to as devious, but you are offended at being called foolish?" A poor attempt at camouflaging her incredulity, she admitted to herself before continuing.

"Exception noted. However, and this is to your discredit, Ser Seneschal, if you thought I would not retaliate for that humbuggery of lacy ornamentation you are, indeed, bacon-brained, not to mention ill-advised and imprudent. I'm not at all sure the viscount is aware of these traits of yours, serah, but I feel it is my duty as a citizen of Kirkwall to report such infamous behavior to him."

At this point, the seneschal held his hands up in defeat. "You are quite correct in chastising me, Serah Hawke. It was, indeed, bacon-brained of me to think you would not retaliate in some infantile form or fashion."

A triumphant smile, in the guise of a smug grin, came to rest on her lips and she was disinclined to remove it. "I am more than willing to allow a new gown - or more - to be introduced into my wardrobe. I am not unreasonable." She paused, noticing a look of disbelief flit across the seneschal's features. Ignoring it, she continued, "As Lord Aubrey took particular notice of my eyes, I should think a blue gown would not go amiss."

"I would be wary of anything Lord Aubrey pays attention to, serah, as he is known to be a rake of the first order."

Leaning forward, smug grin becoming broader, Grace tilted her head. "Why, Bran Drummond, never say you are jealous of Aubrey Pentaghast."

She watched with unbecoming glee as his jaws twitched, but once he spoke, she wished fervently that he had not. "Another puerile attempt to goad me; most unattractive and unseemly in a child who contends she is an adult. If you wish to become something other than a ragamuffin, you will cease these childish attacks."

Grace felt her smile slip slightly – or perhaps completely – as she leapt to her feet and came to lean across his desk, glaring. "You, serah, are no gentleman," she hissed, truly angry and completely forgetting the reason for her visit, or understanding why she was so upset, come to that. He'd said much worse to her on more than one occasion. And her most recent comeback had been lamentably lame.

He was so close she could smell the faint aroma of sandalwood and musk. She took a moment to breathe deeply, under the guise of collecting her thoughts. Horrified that she would do such a thing, she stepped back, unable to think of anything to say, much to her mortification. For a minute they stared at each other with the kind of awareness that she had avoided so successfully with others. Damn his snide little sneer!

"In addition to personally delivering the tattered remnants of your gown what is it you need, serah?"

"I – I have come to…that is…oh, never mind that. Your rudeness has quite put me off my stride."

"I see. I must remember _that _the next time I have need of privacy in my own office."

Without a backward glance, glare or glower, she marched out of the office, pulling the door shut behind her. It was not until she was halfway to Aveline's office that she remembered the reason for her early visit, which only added to her sense of injury.

"If I hurry, I can be pleasantly drunk before my meeting at ten," she muttered.

"I don't know why you let him get you so upset, Grace. He's just a civil servant," Aveline, the queen of understatement, said moments later.

"As are you, lest you have forgotten, Guard-Captain Aveline," Grace replied quickly, appalled to be defending the man. This was certainly not the direction she'd wanted her morning to take. "Now, do you still have that apricot brandy in your desk?"

"Oh, no you don't, Hawke. That's the only thing I've found that removes the blood from my armor."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"The trade negotiations between Nevarra and Kirkwall must be weighed against the trade agreements already established with Orlais," Bran explained, knowing the political lessons would end in catastrophe. He ought to just admit failure to Marlowe, take his lumps and move on. Yet there he was, spending entirely too much time helping the irrepressible ingénue learn the intricacies of politics.

"Your implication is that Nevarra and Orlais are not bedfellows," Grace remarked with a pert grin that caused his amusement to rise. He quickly quashed it.

The very last thing that Grace Hawke needed was encouragement for her outlandish behavior. She was far too talented at inciting him to injudicious actions and words. Yet there was an odd appeal in her wildness, in the impetuosity of her. Oh no, Bran Drummond, you do not want to travel that particular road, he admonished.

"Correct, Serah Hawke, they are not bedfellows," he replied when he was sure his inappropriate amusement had died a natural death.

"Grace."

"As you say."

"No, as _you_ say."

"A dispute over land and mineral rights along their border precludes any friendship," he explained, ignoring her histrionic display - a wrist to her brow and a drawn out sigh – over his refusal to use her given name.

"Earlier, were you warning me away from Lord Aubrey because he is not someone I should get into bed with?" she continued, her tone taking on the dulcet underpinnings of a naïve young woman of the nobility. In point of fact, she sounded remarkably like Effemia Raemond, the artless younger daughter of Teyrn Aedlemar Raemond, the estimable and esteemed ruler of Ostwick, currently visiting her aunt Eurrea in Hightown.

Grace seemed determined to bait him and he was of equal determination not to allow himself to be induced by her machinations. He admitted to a certain disconcertion at her ability to mimic others so precisely but foreswore remarking upon his unease. "Whom you choose to get into bed with is of no importance to me on a personal level, Serah Hawke. However, in as much as you desire entry into Kirkwall society, it behooves you to exercise discretion and circumspection in said choice."

Blue eyes wide and guileless, the young woman proclaimed, "I am all that is grateful for your assistance in this matter, Seneschal Bran. I know not what would befall me without your excellent, erudite observations and advisement."

"That's laying it on a bit thick, Grace," he replied around an almost irresistible urge to smile.

"Ha! I knew you'd succumb sooner or later, Seneschal Bran!" the chit in question crowed triumphantly.

Cursing his momentary lapse, he decided ignoring the gaffe was preferable to an acknowledgement. "In regard to the Antivan ambassador, refrain from discussing the Qunari when in his presence."

"Is there any subject I would wish to speak to the Antivan ambassador about? He seems saturnine in the extreme, especially for a man whose country boasts some of the finest brandy ever distilled."

"Did you have no tutor at all growing up?" Bran asked, internally wincing at the snide overtones in his question. Given what he knew of her upbringing, he was sure to have a peal rung down on him for such a question.

Her eyes narrowed and she stood up, hands on hips and mouth downturned. He braced himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing, not entirely sure he didn't deserve it. Their lesson had been…problematic and he was not the most patient of men in such situations.

"My father provided my education and you would do well to refrain from further disparagement in that direction," she replied with all the warmth of an ice storm.

"Indeed. Did you, perhaps, forget the lesson on the Qunari invasion, the exalted marches and the Treaty of Llomerryn? A portion of Antiva is still annexed to the Qunari, a fact that Jaime del Vega has no desire to discuss."

A jot of remorse at his mordancy gave Bran an uncomfortable moment. She was far more accomplished than he had any right to expect, given her unconventional childhood. He was on the verge of an apology when the door was opened and Marlowe Dumar strode in. Bran drew a relieved breath and silently berated himself for a moment of weakness.

"There you are!" the viscount exclaimed unnecessarily, pointing at Grace Hawke.

"Yes, here I am. And there you are," she agreed with perfect equability. She smiled, eliciting an answering smile from the viscount. "We were just discussing politics and bedfellows. Will you be joining us?"

"Just so. I – pardon? Oh, never mind. I have need of your assistance in a rather delicate manner, Grace. I trust I can rely upon your discretion."

An indecorous snort-turned-cough erupted and two sets of eyes turned to him. "Have you no court healer, Seneschal Bran? That cough of yours sounds quite serious. Perhaps the deleterious effects of the dampness here in Kirkwall? I believe we discussed how easily things rust here," Grace said with a wicked smile.

He was in danger of laughing outright at her antics, which would only serve to encourage her roguishness.

"Bran, are you all right? I haven't noticed your cough but I've been – "

"Yes, Your Grace, I am quite well, I assure you. Serah Hawke was merely making sport at my expense."

"Oh? Ohhhh, I see," his friend said with a broad wink that could no doubt be seen by all occupants of the room. With an inward groan that never made it past his thoughts, Bran promised himself that retribution would be forthcoming.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," the viscount added with another wink of exaggerated proportions.

Sighing, Bran watched as Marlowe made it as far as the door before he turned on his heel and smiled apologetically. "If you would attend to this matter at your earliest convenience, Grace."

Clearly perplexed by his words, Grace asked, "What matter, exactly?"

"Oh, right. The matter. Yes, the Arishok has asked for you by name and as I have no desire to antagonize the man, I ask that you pop round to my office at your earliest convenience so we may discuss the matter in greater detail."

A moment's panic stirred in Bran's chest, making him blurt out, "I shall accompany her to your office."

Grace snickered, a noise he would have preferred not to hear at that moment. "You sound as though you're afraid of something. Never tell me you believe this politician is worthy of becoming a be -"

"Thank you, Your Grace, we shall be in your office shortly," Bran interrupted hastily. The panic that had stirred a moment earlier began a lively dance in his chest. She would kill him, he had no doubt. Murder by heart failure, if he were to guess.

Yet he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed, or enjoyed a conversation so thoroughly. That was a bit of a worry.

He wondered if the invitation to become Margrave Savill's seneschal was still open. Not that he was particularly fond of Ansburg, but it was without…complications.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Lord Aubrey called on her just as she was about to leave for the Qunari compound. She was wearing her customary leather armor and her hair was pulled into a neat, if unattractive, set of braids that were tightly wound around each ear, like a matching pair of those wonderful chocolate-coated buns that were sold at the bakery in Hightown. His gloriously groomed brows rose when she pulled open the door.

"Oh," she uttered rather inarticulately, her heart first slamming into her ribs and then promptly plummeting to her scruffy boots.

"Good day, Lady Grace. I fear I've caught you at an inopportune moment. I will not impose my companionship upon your personage, but I wish to invite you for an afternoon promenade, if that is agreeable."

"Today?" she finally managed around the heart that had traveled from her boots to her throat with dizzying speed.

A dazzling smile nearly blinded her and for the briefest flicker of an instant, she wondered if Bran Drummond might not be correct in his assessment of Lord Aubrey Pentaghast of Nevarra. He was certainly all that was charming. Almost too much so. The words _practiced polish_ came to mind. She wondered if he had any idea how much her total worth was after the expedition into the Deep Roads, or how many businesses she now had part ownership in. Damn the seneschal for putting such doubts in her head! Even if the handsome man _was_ only after her money, there was no reason not to enjoy his company. She had no intention of marrying him, but surely a dalliance with him would not cause undue harm. Seneschal Bran's outrage over such a liaison would be a delightful side effect.

"Tomorrow will be better for both of us, I think. I will call for you at two of the clock."

"Lovely," she agreed, grimacing at the revolting simper she detected in her voice.

"Yes," he agreed, his eyes taking her in from head to toe. Without another word, he turned and walked away. Grace watched him until he rounded a corner, waiting until he was out of earshot to sigh. Rake or not, fortune hunter or not, he was _very_ easy on the eye.

Then why, she thought crossly a moment later, hurrying to the Hanged Man to have a belt of cheap rye and gather her companions for her visit to the Arishok, did her thoughts turn automatically to the captious, cantankerous and oft times churlish, seneschal?

Maker, she was in need of more than one drink. The meeting would hopefully be brief. She saw a trip to the Rusty Cock in the not too distant future.

As it turned out, they left town in search of a pesky dwarf named Javaris Tintop. Not that any of them believed for a minute that the bungling dwarf was capable of stealing anything from the Qunari. Or from anyone else for that matter. At least not any living person.

After an interrogation, made brief because the dwarf was more concerned with his face than his future, they discovered they actually needed to find a crazy elf. Naturally, she was back in Kirkwall. Sadly, as the hour had grown late, that meant staying overnight in the inhospitable reaches of the Wounded Coast and a rather lengthy discussion about Aubrey Pentaghast over drinks and dinner.

"He's light in the pockets," Isabela said, shaking her head. "Although I prefer them light in the pockets and not light in the crotch, if you know what I mean."

"Honey, the whole world knows what you mean," Anders replied with a grin. Isabela tossed a saucy smile at him and Grace wondered how she managed to make it look so easy. The one and only time she'd tried, back when she'd thought she might be developing feelings for Fenris, she'd tried it and nearly snapped her neck. Once Fenris had stopped chuckling, they'd agreed friendship was a much better path to walk.

"He's more than light. His pockets are as empty as my mug," Varric agreed, turning his flagon upside down to illustrate his point.

"But he's gorgeous. I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite that attractive before," Grace said a bit wistfully.

"Hey, hold on a tic! Didn't you swear I was the most attractive person you'd ever met?" Anders demanded, wagging a finger at her.

"Erm…maybe?" she quibbled, wondering how much she'd had to drink the night she'd told him that. Not that he wasn't attractive, and great fun, for that matter, but he was not even in the same category as Aubrey Pentaghast.

"Should we not be sleeping? We must return to Kirkwall first thing in the morning and find the saar-qamek," Sebastian interrupted, all earnest goodness.

"Of course, Sebby. Just hand over your mug and we'll all settle down and get some sleep."

"Thank you, Hawke, but I am quite capable of holding my own mug."

"Is that what you choir boys call it?" Varric snickered, leaning back on his elbows.

Ignoring the dwarf's jab, Sebastian said with careful dignity - the voice used when he'd had more than one drink - "And about Aubrey Pentaghast: his exploits were _legendary_ in Starkhaven. I patterned my own debauchery after his heroic deeds."

Grace giggled, despite her mental admonition not to. Debauchery and Sebastian did not seem to go together, and having the word come out of his mouth in such a careful, dignified way made it all the more incongruous. She had to admit, however, that she'd be right there if he even hinted he wanted to take her to bed. As long as he didn't open his mouth and recite the chant, she amended, curling up on her bedroll and closing her eyes. Moments later she fell asleep.

Only to dream about a red-haired seneschal with an acerbic and ready wit.

She woke up in a thunderous mood and marched back to Kirkwall on the double. The poor elf who'd gone crazy and killed a number of citizens with the Qunari poison didn't stand a chance against her and fell quickly, as did the waves of her followers who attacked them each time they dared seal off a barrel of saar-qamek.

Grace wasn't sure if she was angry over her dream or the fact that she'd missed her afternoon walk with Aubrey. Not that it mattered. The anger had made the fight with the lunatics that much easier.

"By all that's holy, how did the Qunari manage to save five _barrels_ of poison when their ship went down? And how did an elf manage to steal it all?" Varric asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"A mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma," Anders responded.

"In other words, we'll never know because the Qunari are tight-lipped bastards," Grace translated at Isabela's frown. "Head home and I'll let the viscount know what's going on."

"Let him know that the Arishok is one sock shy of a pair," Anders said with a shudder.

"And raving mad, too," Isabela chimed in.

"How would you know, you big scaredy cat? You stayed outside the compound," Anders teased.

"You think his voice doesn't carry?"

The viscount was not in. Hardly surprising since the chantry's bells had just rung the sixth hour. She was just about to head down the stairs when she heard the cool, cutting voice of the seneschal.

"Serah Hawke, how good of you to make an appearance."

She spun around to face him, all too aware of the dirt and blood that streaked her face and armor. The bastard was as crisp and cool as if he'd just bathed and dressed. Loathsome man. And why was he _glaring_ at her? She glared back, wishing she had even a scintilla of her father's magic in her because she would gladly hit the seneschal with a bolt of lightning.

"I beg your humble pardon, Seneschal Bran. Next time I'll stop what it is I'm supposed to be doing so I can toady up to the viscount, on whose authority I was acting I might add. And lest you think I have been sitting in my parlor sipping tea and eating bon-bons, I assure you I most definitely have not.

"I have marched to the Wounded Coast, slept in the sand, which is the most miserable experience imaginable, marched back to the city only to be subjected to a poison that, when inhaled in large amounts, drives one to attack one's fellow citizens, which a sizable number of them seemed inclined to do; I came to fisticuffs with a guardsman who had succumbed to the effects of the poison; I was stabbed by an old acquaintance that no longer knew me in his madness and I fought with more deranged people than I can count, and _you _have the temerity to be upset because I didn't make time for a debriefing with the viscount before he left for the day?"

By the end of her diatribe, she was standing within a hair's breadth of the man, who had a strange glint in his eyes. She blinked. Had he actually been concerned about her? She nearly laughed aloud at how ludicrous such a thought was and began to turn away when she was caught up in his arms, his lips descending with profound authority, leaving her to wonder if _he_ hadn't been subjected to the saar-qamek as well.

After the searing kiss, he continued to his office without a backward glance. Grace, stunned into speechlessness, and apparently no longer able to move her limbs either, stood staring after him for several long, silent moments.

Politics and bedfellows, indeed, she thought indignantly as life returned to her limbs and her brain began to respond to her commands. She slammed out of the keep without so much as a by-your-leave, determined to put all thoughts of the man out of her head.

But the pressure of his lips on hers stayed with her long after she'd returned home.


	6. The Proper Footing

**A/N:**_ Thank you, Lisa, for your awesomeness, and big hugs to Sam.  
My continuing thanks to all those who are following the story._ _It is most appreciated!_  
_A short chapter, but I'm inundated with house guests, wonky eyesight and a granddaughter who wants me to write tales of Piffles the Purple Dragon. Don't ask. :)_

** The Proper Footing**

Without a break in her step, Grace slammed the door behind her and raced up the stairs to her bedroom, where the door was also slammed with such force that the figurines on her mantle shimmied and shook from the reverberation.

A sharp rap on the still vibrating door followed by the sound of it opening caused her to whirl around, hands on hips. "That menace of a seneschal is a furuncle upon the fundament of mankind!" she growled at the woman who stood in the doorway, smiling quizzically.

"Really, Grace, I know that Bran can be a bit of a scalawag, but he is hardly a boil upon the posterior of mankind. What has he done to put you in such a tear?"

Grace blinked, surprised by the question. She was outraged; shouldn't her mother support her in that? And how could she explain the inexplicable? There were no words adequate to express the indignity she had suffered. "_Scalawag_? Really, Mother! Anders is a scalawag; Bran is a – a blustering, bloodless bounder!"

A broad smile gave way to a tinkling laugh that further infuriated Grace. Before she could expound on her theme her mother spoke with that soft clucking noise that all mothers seemed to possess. "Your theatrics are firmly entrenched once again, I see. What has this blustering boil of a bloodless bounder done to you, my darling daughter?"

To Grace's utter horror, she found her lips twitching. They seemed determined to wing upwards into an answering smile, to her great disgruntlement. "I will not say, Mother, I will give neither voice nor thought to his intolerable actions, for to do so gives them credence when they deserve none."

Her mother's brows rose and then she brought her hands together, clapping softly. "Oh, well done, dear. There was just the right amount of condemnation and haughtiness to be convincing. If," Leandra continued with another bright smile, "one is easily hoodwinked. Now, tell your dear mother what has you so distressed, lest I need challenge the boil to a duel."

Grace's laughter escaped before she could stifle it, her ill-temper easing. "Fie upon thee, Lady Amell-Hawke! I was in a perfectly justifiable state of umbrage and you've destroyed it with _your_ theatrics!"

The ridiculousness of the situation gave rise to another wave of laughter and the two women hugged briefly, before her mother spoke in a serious tone. "Welcome home, dear. I was concerned for your safety, but I appreciate the note you sent apprising me of your plans. Did you find what you went in search of?"

Grace looked down at her grubby clothes, before pushing back her tangled hair, her actions deliberately exaggerated. "Surely _that_ is apparent by the grime I wear?"

"I am very well aware that you saved the lives of many people today, Grace. If I don't make light of it, as unnatural as that may seem for a mother to do, I will worry myself into an early grave."

A shiver skittered along Grace's spine at that image. She had lost enough and she was not prepared to lose her mother as well. "You've no need to worry, Mother. I'll always return unscathed. There are too many friends watching my back to do otherwise."

"In the case of Anders I would suggest your back is not the part of your anatomy he is watching, love, much as it pains me to acknowledge."

"Weep not, Mother; he and I will never be more than friends. He is much too spirited for my liking, and he's like a man possessed when it comes to his work."

"That warms my heart to know, dear child. Now, I have ordered a bath, and I insist that you hurry. We dine with the viscount this evening."

Grace blinked, uttering a very intelligent "Huh?" as she stared at her mother.

"Quickly, dear. It is never in good form to keep a person of higher rank waiting."

"But I haven't anything to wear thanks to you and the seneschal, unless you want me to wear a nightgown or a set of leathers?" Grace responded, her words smothered in gloat, delighted that her mother's plans were to be foiled by her own machinations.

"On the contrary, Grace. Madame Pelletier's shop girl brought several new gowns over this afternoon. Nothing elegant enough for a ball or the opera, but adequate for dinner with friends."

Grace's heart somersaulted in her chest, before performing a perfectly executed dive to her boots. Her anger, recently departed, returned with unbecoming haste and she welcomed it. "Oh no, I will not wear anything that woman has made, not after the abomination of pink frou-frouality I was forced to wear the other night. You've gone soft in the head if you think otherwise."

Grace knew she wore a mulish expression, but she felt vindicated in so doing. Surely her mother wasn't becoming addle-pated in her advancing years? How could she expect her daughter to wear a gown designed by the woman who had created that debacle of pink frothiness?

"I have had a discussion with the dressmaker, dear, and she assures me that neither a bow nor bit of lace will adorn any of your future gowns without your express authorization. She worked with great conscientiousness to ensure the frocks would be completed in a timely manner. The very least you can do is examine them. I feel confident that you will admire them as I do."

Grace's doubt showed in the lift of an eyebrow. "Admiration is not a word I would use when discussing her handiwork."

Her mother did not relinquish her station by the door and Grace sighed. "Is there anything I might say that will dissuade you from this course? Must I attend a dinner with his nibs, Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall? Might I not just curl up in a wrapper and eat toast points and custard while you go and rub elbows with the noblest of the nobles?"

Grace held out hope of a reprieve for all of ten seconds before her mother shook her head, her expression as mulish as Grace's had been earlier. "It is not a dinner party, merely Marlowe and Saemus. We will dine _en famille_, dear, and Saemus expressed great interest in your exploits."

"Lovely. I'll just have a scrub-up, shall I?" Grace asked ungraciously. She frowned as a thought came to her, one she wasn't sure she was ready to give voice to. Was it possible her mother was forming an attachment to Marlowe Dumar? The thought, much like an itch, refused to be ignored.

Disregarding tone for content, her mother instructed, "Swiftly then, dear. I'll send Orana up to assist you."

In the flurry of activity that followed, Grace was left little time to think about the assault on her personage or the man who'd used his lips as a weapon. She thought she should thank her mother for the distraction, although being forced into a surprisingly attractive gown of dark green silk with an ivory underskirt and stomacher made her just cross enough not to speak to her mother at all. Besides, it was difficult, with all the distractions, to strategize a suitable revenge against the seneschal, which she blamed on her mother, and, by proxy, the viscount.

With her hair pulled up and artfully arranged by a surprisingly talented Orana, Grace made her way down the stairs, prepared to vent her frustration on her unsuspecting mother. Before she could express her frustration Varric was announced by her blushing maid, who scuttled away with the speed of a mouse who'd spied cheese in the other room.

"Wow, Hawke, that's a new look," the dwarf said, scratching at the back of his head and looking a bit uncomfortable.

His discomfiture gratified her and she was preparing a wee dance of gloatiness but decided against it as he was intent on studying some point on the wall off her right shoulder. Why dance if it wouldn't be appreciated?

"Don't get used to it," she instructed with a grin as she lifted her skirts to show that her feet were not clad in dainty kid slippers as they ought to be, but a pair of serviceable brown leather boots. A snicker from Varric and a sigh of resignation from her mother brought an unrepentant grin to Grace's lips.

"I hate to do this, but you told me to let you know when Bartrand gets back to town. He's here," Varric announced, effectively slaying Grace's grin.

She glanced at her mother, whose face had paled. "Mother, you know I cannot let his actions go unanswered," she said. With that, she ran upstairs, slipped her daggers back into their sheaths and strapped them around her waist before hurtling downstairs.

"This cannot wait, but it shouldn't take long. I will find you at the viscount's after I've finished!" she called over her shoulder as she raced out into the night.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Brannagh Drummond leaned against the closed door of his office, eyes shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose in hopes of averting the headache that seemed intent on clamoring for attention. He was, in all respects, quite unhappy with his complete abandonment of common sense. The more determined he was to uncover the reason for his lapse in judgment, the less he understood it.

He had sworn that no woman would ever affect him again after his marriage had failed so spectacularly and so publicly. He was meticulous in his avoidance of matrimony, or dalliances of any stripe, yet he had kissed Grace Hawke in front of a handful of city guards, as infamous for their gossiping as they were for their ineptitude. He wondered if it wasn't time for him to take that long overdue vacation to see his son in Tantervale.

A knock on the door sent any hope of understanding his aberrant behavior skittering into the dark recesses of his thoughts. He pushed himself away from the door and moved to his desk before he commanded curtly, "Enter!"

"Seneschal Bran, His Grace asked that I deliver this," a young guardsman said, handing him a folded vellum bearing the ornate seal of the Dumar family.

"Thank you. You may leave now."

The blood red wax mocked him as he tossed the vellum aside in favor of returning to his thoughts, which were still avoiding him most assiduously. Frustrated with himself, he picked up the missive and broke the seal, reaching for his pince-nez, after a glance at the door to ensure his privacy, which only further aggravated him. He needn't hide the fact that he required spectacles for reading, yet his vanity overcame common sense.

_Bran,_

_Stop working so hard. Come and dine with us. I have a new bottle of Val Foret red._

_~~Marlowe_

As it appeared no further work would be accomplished in his current mood, Bran rose with unseemly haste and within minutes was locking his office. He refused to acknowledge the low hum of whispers among the guards still on duty, who had doubtlessly descried his deplorable deportment of earlier.

As he walked along the well-lit street, he saw Grace and her diminutive, and rather disreputable, dwarven friend hurrying in his direction. For the merest heartbeat, when panic came and tickled at his nerves, he wondered if it would not be prudent for him to cross the street or step into the encroaching shadows, but the two seemed deep in conversation and turned into an alleyway without ever noticing him, which caused a vague stirring of disappointment that he attributed to hunger pangs and exhaustion.

He continued on to the viscount's large and well-lit mansion, reaching up to the ornate door-knocker – a stylized dragon of all absurdities – and quickly banged the dragon's tail on the door. He hoped that Marlowe had found more than one bottle of the Val Foret red, as he thought it would take a number of glasses to set his thoughts into more pleasing lines.

To his surprise, Leandra Hawke was not only present, but entertaining the viscount and his son with a story involving Grace, a prickly hedgehog and a difference of opinion. Naturally all eyes fell on him as he entered and she changed the conversation with all the subtlety of a drunken sailor, leaving him to wonder if he had misheard her. Perhaps she'd said 'redhead' and not, as he had first imagined, 'hedgehog'. It would certainly explain the self-conscious smiles and long pauses in the conversation.

"Did anything of any great import occur after I left for the day?" Marlowe asked of him, wearing a sly smile as he passed Bran a drink.

Bran glanced down at his wineglass, wondering if would be terribly gauche if he downed it and poured himself another. "Nothing comes to mind, Your Grace," he lied, desiring nothing more than an immediate change of topic. "Saemus, how are your studies progressing?"

"My studies are going well, thank you, Bran. How are _your_ studies going?"

Confused, Bran frowned at the young man, who was his father's son in looks, but more his mother in temperament, a dangerous combination. "What studies would those be?" he asked, almost immediately regretting the question, wondering, rather than draining the wine from his glass, if spilling that liquid would not distract the three people in front of him long enough for him to escape.

"Wasn't that what you were doing with Serah Hawke's li –" Here the young lad broke off as a sharp elbow, attached to the arm of the viscount, made contact with the boy's ribs.

Bran felt the resurgence of pain in his head and, uncouth or not, allowed himself to finish his drink with unbecoming haste. Thus fortified, and feeling mortified, he said, "I suppose the word of our unfortunate encounter has been relayed, no doubt with the most salacious embellishments imaginable."

Lady Leandra, to her credit, merely smiled most sympathetically, though her words negated that act almost immediately. "That you survived the encounter does you great credit, Bran. You always were a bit of a rapscallion."

An undignified and inappropriate snort came from the direction of the Dumar men and Bran had no idea which of them had made such an indelicate sound, nor did it matter as Saemus spoke with such incredulity that Bran felt an immediate pang of offended sensibilities. "A _rapscallion_? Uncle Bran? Might as well accuse Grand Cleric Elthina of cutting up a lark!"

General merriment ensued, to Bran's incensement. "I was never the rapscallion your father was, Saemus. Speak to him of his misspent youth."

With the conversation thus diverted, Bran was left to his thoughts, which unaccountably returned to Grace Hawke and where she was off to with Varric Tethras. He had heard, through various sources, that Bartrand Tethras had been glimpsed in the vicinity of his Hightown manor earlier in the day. As comprehension filtered through his thoughts, he felt himself go cold.

"As we are on the subject of scalawags, where is the proud scion of the Amell family?" he asked in his most disinterested voice, a nonchalant gaze flicking around the room.

"She's gone to meet with Varric's brother."

"Just she and the dwarf?" he asked, refusing to acknowledge or give credence to the sharp spike of anxiety now winging through his blood.

Marlowe spoke around a frown. "What is it, Bran? Leandra?"

"I would suggest Leandra is a better informant than I on the subject. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to return to the keep and the massive mound of correspondence still requiring my attention."

With only a cursory bow in Leandra's direction, he made his way out of the mansion and down the stairs expeditiously, his speed increasing until he was nearly running. As soon as he entered the keep, he hurried up the stairs to the right and through the double doors to the city guard barracks and offices.

"You! Guard Marple, isn't it? Fetch Guard Captain Aveline! Now!" he added, his feet insisting he keep moving. Pacing the halls, he waited with his customary patience for Aveline to arrive.

She was still buckling her cuirass as she strode towards him. "What is it?" she asked crossly, coming to a smart stop in front of him and glaring down her nose at him. He had always felt tall until she had become captain. She stood a head taller, a thoroughly intimidating woman even without the additional bulk of armor.

"I have it on good authority that your friend, Serah Hawke, has gone to confront Bartrand Tethras. I am hardly surprised to find you are sitting here, in the safety of the barracks, rather than standing beside her."

The tone and words had the desired effect, although Bran braced himself for a round of fisticuffs as Aveline's jaw took on the jut of a pugilist. "If you know that much, surely you know where this meeting is taking place," she snarled.

"Logic dictates that you will find them both at his mansion in Atherton Street," he replied, hands curling into fists with the express desire of beating haste into her painfully measured movements.

"Marple! Poirot! You're with me!" she finally cried, just as Bran was preparing to further provoke her.

He paced the length of his office and when that proved much too short a distance, he added the antechamber to his path. What had her mother been thinking in allowing Grace to confront the man who'd locked her, and her companions, in the Deep Roads and left them at the mercy of darkspawn? The man was responsible for Bethany Hawke's death and if he knew anything about Grace it was that her honor would always demand retribution, that she would visit vengeance on those who had wronged any she loved. How could her mother not realize that as well? Or had she realized that nothing could have been said that would have deterred or distracted the woman once she'd set upon a course? He was convinced it was the latter. A more headstrong woman he had yet to encounter.

Pacing proved an exercise in frustration and futility, but sitting down was unthinkable. After a dozen more turns of the office and ante-chamber, he finally sat at his desk and pretended to work, instead pushing papers into various stacks that would no doubt confound him as to their purpose in the morning.

"You're working late," a voice said quietly from the doorway.

Bran's heart began to beat properly again, and he glanced up at the woman standing in his door. "A remarkably astute observation, even for you, Serah Hawke," he replied with a sneer.

"Thank you, Seneschal Bran. Without your pithy rejoinders I might actually come to believe I'm a reasonably competent person."

Returning his eyes to the mound of paperwork, he asked, "Was there something you required of the viscount's office this evening? Or are you simply bored and in need of attention?"

"I've come to thank you, you irascible, intransigent ingrate!" she replied in a hiss of anger.

"Indeed? Such a unique expression of gratitude, Serah Hawke; I shudder to think how you might articulate your disapprobation."

Silence descended and when he glanced up from his paperwork, it was to find his doorway empty. He would only admit to relief that their relationship was once again where it should be, but the small knot of disappointment refused to believe it.


	7. The Art of the Dance

**A/N:** _I want to thank all the 'guests' who have reviewed. I'm sorry that I'm unable to respond directly, but know that I appreciate the time you spend reading and reviewing, and that your reviews mean a great deal to me_.  
_Thank you, Lisa! Your beta assistance was spot on, as it always is!_

**The Art of the Dance**

"Just you wait, Brannagh Drummond, just you wait," she threatened, storming into the house. The windows rattled in protest as the door slammed shut behind her. She took the stairs two at a time, her legs as angry as the rest of her. But those in the house awaiting another slammed door were surprised to hear the soft click of her bedroom door being closed with quiet precision, followed by silence.

Staring down at the rather large splotch of blood on her stomacher, she felt another wave of anger crash into her. "Just. You. Wait."

For the next ten minutes, she envisioned scenarios whereby the cruel, hard-hearted seneschal got his comeuppance. The one where he was bobbing in the Waking Sea brought a gleeful smile to her lips and she whispered, "When you yell you're going to drown, I'll just laugh and head for town!"

The vision of him doubled over in pain made her rub her hands together in delight. "Just you wait, Brannagh Drummond, 'til you're sick, and you scream to fetch a healer double quick. I'll –"

"Dear? Are you well?"

"Yes, _quite_ well, thank you, Mother. Tell me, though…what rhymes with 'Rusty Cock'?"

A noise, not unlike the sound of someone choking on tea, caused Grace a moment's unease, and she was just about to open her door when her mother responded, her voice becoming fainter with each syllable, as if she was hastily retreating down the hallway: "Oh dear, I have no wish to know why you desire such a…no, let me rephrase that…why would you require such a…oh, dear, I'm happy to know you are well. Pleasant dre…good night, Grace."

Momentarily distracted by her pride at rendering her mother incoherent, Grace leaned against the door, forgetting to vilify the seneschal. Finally, realizing she was in danger of mooning over the reprehensible redhead, she pushed away from the door and began to struggle out of her gown.

It became apparent to her, as she twisted first one way and then another, that seamstresses and maids were in collusion as it was impossible to disrobe from such a gown without assistance. Perhaps were she a contortionist she could manage the tiny row of hooks that ran down the back of her gown, or untie the wickedly intricate knot that laced her stomacher tightly to her, but alas, she was not. Finally, in a fit of pique, she drew her boots on once again and left the sanctuary of her house for the one place she had promised herself she would not return to.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You're bosky."

"I am most assuredly not bosky. A tad disguised perhaps."

"Jug-bitten," Isabela agreed with an audacious grin.

"Half-sprung, mayhap, but not jug-bitten," Grace argued, enunciating each word with great care and even greater conviction.

"Tap-hackled," Anders replied, his grin sitting with a great deal of cockiness on his lips.

"Ye've dipped too deeply," Sebastian said sagely and then proceeded to spoil the effect by waving merrily at the bottle of whiskey, now sitting empty and abandoned on the table.

Confused to see Sebastian at the Rusty Cock, as the hard and fast rule had always been to preclude him from attending their revelry in the establishment, Grace shook her head and immediately regretted it. Perhaps there was a modicum of truth in what they said. Spying her flagon, she snatched it off the table and turned it upside down, smiling in righteous triumph.

"As you can see, _I_ am not _in_ my cups," she retorted with a cackle that caused her to clap a hand over her mouth in profound humiliation. Had anyone but her made that noise she would have happily slain them. She would not blame her cohorts if they chose that same course of action. Luckily they were more intent on drinking than exterminating those who made hideous cackling noises in lieu of refined tittering.

"You may be correct in your asseshment…assessment, Anders. I believe I am, indeed, bosky. Or maybe I'm just a bit befogged," she added hastily, deciding that being confused was preferable to admitting she'd had a trifle too much to drink.

"_Begrogged_ is more like it," Varric snickered. "Can you imagine how shocked the nobles of fair Hightown would be to see one of their own practically face down in the Rusty Cock?"

She gave him a bleary-eyed glare that turned into an undignified giggle. "As if they would be caught with a rusty cock," she declared and then frowned as everyone laughed. "In! I meant 'in' you assemblage of nattering ne'er-do-wells!"

"My, my listen to her highness. Next thing you know she'll be wearing fancy gowns and posh hair. Oh wait! It seems she already is," Isabela guffawed, slapping Grace on the back of her new gown. Grace's carefully arranged hair shifted slightly but remained in its neat twist, curls intact and dancing daintily against her cheeks.

"Pay her no heed, Hawke. You are the epitome of refinement and elegance," Fenris announced, glaring haughtily at the others.

"Thank you Fenris. I appreciate your kind and honest assessment of my current state," she replied with great dignity.

"Perhaps, in the interest of attracting a higher class of clientele, we should all dress in such a foppish manner," he continued with a regal nod in her direction, a telltale smile curving his lips.

_Gammoned by the best, demons plague him!_ Laughter erupted all around her. Even Sebastian, his eyes merry and his cheeks a lovely shade of red, chuckled, though he immediately said, "Ach, Grace, forgive me. I'll nae make fun of ye."

He looked adorably drunk, and she had a strong desire to reach across the table and ruffle his hair or pinch his rosy cheek. She doubted he knew that his glass contained only water and had for some time. She stared at him, wondering briefly if he was drunk enough to take her bed but still sober enough to perform if he did. The thought made her grin and she gave into temptation and ruffled his hair, which made him smile in delight.

"A wee dram for Hawke, an' one for her lads and lasses!" he exclaimed, waving a serving wench over.

"Hawke, that Maker god of yours won't be happy if you take advantage of Choir Boy," Varric warned in a quiet aside, though loud enough for those present to hear.

"Varric, I canna sing a note. I'm nae choir boy," Sebastian explained earnestly.

"Right, and I'm no gold-loving dwarf."

By the time the laughter had once again subsided Grace was on her feet, having decided that she was about to make a cake of herself should she continue to partake of the libations offered by the Rusty Cock. "Whilst I am still able I believe I shall return to my fashionable estate in Hightown," she announced with a flourishing curtsy.

"Aye, I'll walk with ye," Sebastian announced, rising unsteadily and grinning prodigiously once he realized he'd made it to his feet. "Ye'll nae be safe on the streets."

"Make sure he gets to the chantry safely, Hawke. We don't need the ire of the grand cleric focused on us," Anders instructed, surprisingly stern considering how charmingly foxed he was.

"Aye, we'll not wish to upset her Grace, Grace. Oh!" he added, chuckling at his witticism.

"Take the long way, maybe it'll give him time to sober up. If not, it might give you time to…well, I'll leave that to you to figure out," Isabela chortled.

Sebastian flung an arm over Grace's shoulders, nearly knocking her onto the floor but she gamely wrapped her arm around his waist and guided him out into the cool air. As they walked along the dark streets Sebastian hummed quietly to himself, content to stagger along entertaining himself.

"Sebastian, can you really not sing a note?"

"To my mother's constant sorrow, I canna sing the simplest of songs, Grace."

"You hum quite well. What was that song you were just humming? It sounded familiar."

He stopped, turning to stare at her in gape-mouthed shock. "Do you really not know what it is, Grace?"

He was looking at her with such astoundment, she hadn't the heart to admit her ignorance in the matter. Instead, she urged him to continue walking, adroitly changing the subject. "Do you ever miss your profligate ways?"

He stumbled, but to his credit continued walking, his voice, along with his mind, clearing as they continued on. "That is not how I would phrase it, but you've the right of it, Grace. I was a wastrel and I brought great shame to my family. I canna change that, but I'll nae go back to those ways."

Well, that was a bit of a disappointment, but she found she admired his determination. At least in that regard. His inability to decide whether to fight for Starkhaven or renew his vows to the Chantry was a different matter altogether, but one that shouldn't be decided by two people who were walking on the wrong side of sobriety.

They continued on, passing the viscount's stately estate and Lord Aubrey's palatial manor before turning up the final hill towards the ostentatious chantry. Grace struggled briefly with her tongue but finally gave it free rein.

"Do you suppose the chantry might have more funds for the orphans and the poor if they had a few less golden statues of Andraste? Perhaps they could melt one down and use the proceeds to aid the refugees? I can't imagine Andraste actually cares about such trappings, but perhaps I'm wrong. She does look the tiniest bit vain, does she not?"

A quickly indrawn breath was the only sound for long moments as Sebastian once again came to a halt. She glanced at him under the veil of her eyelashes to see he was trying desperately not to laugh. "You've a wicked sharp tongue, Grace Hawke."

"'Tis true, good ser, and woe betide the man who strives to curb it," she agreed, helping him up the stairs. "Now, get inside and get some sleep, but go quietly lest Grand Cleric Elthina discovers you are _begrogged_," she instructed, giving him a gentle shove.

"Grace…" Sebastian began but she waved him inside, knowing they would both be embarrassed enough at their next meeting without declarations being made under cover of drink and darkness.

Not that she would ever know whether he was on the cusp of a declaration of any type as he was swallowed up by the dark interior of the chantry in that moment and she was left to stare at the door being shut quietly in her face. Just as well, she thought as she turned to leave, her skirts held up at an unseemly height as she raced down the stairs.

**~~~oOo~~~~**

Bran pushed aside his paperwork with a low hum of frustration. She was late for her lesson, and it occurred to him, rather belatedly, that after his ham-fisted disparagement of her on the previous evening she might very well have decided to forego further deportment lessons from someone so lacking in manners.

In a moment of abject honesty, he admitted that he had been disproportionately dismissive of her. She had merely stopped by to reassure him that she had survived her ordeal and he had greeted her with nothing but censure and belittlements. He'd behaved like a blustering buffoon and while he had felt perfectly justified at the time, he now felt like the veriest twitterpate ever to grace the halls of the keep.

A sharp rap at the door sent his thoughts fleeing and his heart performed an odd little dip. "Enter!" he called, moving to his desk.

"Good afternoon, Bran. You're looking a bit tired today. Did you stay here all night?"

Annoyance, brought about by a hint of disappointment that it was the viscount and not Grace who entered his office, crept into his voice. "Most assuredly not. I do have a life outside the office, Viscount Dumar," he replied stiffly.

"Ah, excellent. I have it on good authority that Varric Tethras and Grace Hawke were successful in their mission."

"I was apprised of that last night, your Grace."

"Excellent. Now, what business was so important that you felt compelled to come back here rather than dine with us? Certainly nothing that required my signature or approval."

There was a bit more humor in the viscount's tone that Bran cared for. He frowned at his friend. "Sadly, Viscount Dumar, very little of the day-to-day affairs of this office require either."

A smirk grew in prominence on the viscount's features. "Affairs, is it? Speaking of – "

A fortuitous knock sounded and the viscount, now leering, was forced into silence. Had Bran been even the least bit religious, he would have thanked the Maker for the interruption. "Enter!"

"Oh, Father. Hello. Sorry I'm late, Bran, but I'm ready to demonstrate my dancing abilities now."

"You are actually early, Saemus. It is Serah Hawke who is overdue for the lesson."

"Oh, she'll be along shortly. I saw her in the barracks giving Aveline a lecture that left little doubt as to her thoughts on the subject of interfering friends. She has an extraordinarily vocabulary. I wonder if I can get her to teach me a few of those Ferelden idioms."

"Her mother always had a way with words as well. Bright women, those Amells," Dumar murmured with a fond smile. Bran glanced at Saemus who was too young to hide the grin peeking out. Only the blind and infirm could miss the viscount's growing interest in Lady Leandra, Bran thought, concealing his own smile.

"If you place any value upon your lives, I suggest you make your escape while you are able. Serah Hawke will not be pleased when she arrives, and, while it is me she is agitated with, I doubt you will elude her wrath."

"Maker's grace, Bran, what have you done this time?" his friend asked, clearly exasperated but equally unsurprised.

Sensibilities offended, Bran drew himself up to his full height and directed a scowl at the viscount. "Allow me to apportion my abiding appreciation for your thoroughly delightful display of support, _old_ friend."

Saemus snickered before stating, "Lady Leandra and Grace aren't the only people with enviable language skills."

"Nor are they alone in their penchant for the dramatic arts," the viscount agreed. "However, Bran's got the right of it. I do not relish the idea of a tongue-lashing by the young woman."

"Saemus, I've set aside the small ballroom for our lessons. There should be a flautist there, who has promised discretion for his life; a fair trade, given the circumstances of our first meeting. Wait there and Serah Hawke and I will be along shortly."

With unseemly haste, the Dumars departed, leaving Bran alone with his thoughts once more. Before he could collect them, another knock interrupted the process.

"Good afternoon, Seneschal Bran."

His heart gave a disquieting thump and he had to repress the smile that wrestled to escape. Maker, he was in danger of becoming a moonstruck muttonhead at this rate. He cleared his throat. "Good day, Serah Hawke," he said brusquely. "As you are tardy, I suggest we begin the lesson immediately. Follow me."

"I'm quite well, thank you for your altogether amiable inquiry. Mother? She too is well and sends her kindest regards," the insolent young woman replied, her manner both fulsome and cheeky.

His smile never made it to his lips, but he felt a weight shift inside him, an altogether unforeseen and most unacceptable circumstance. "I see you have not lost your penchant for high drama."

"How could I lose what I never possessed?"

"Because you do not admit to having it does not mean you are not in possession of it, Serah Hawke."

"Because you deem it so does not _make _it so, Seneschal Bran."

The smile that had been held in abeyance sprung forth and he had no choice but to acknowledge it. "I believe we're at an impasse," he said as they entered the ballroom.

To his surprise, she was smiling as well. "Given the law of averages, it was bound to happen sooner or later," she agreed with a gracious nod, her smile adhering firmly to her lips.

An intransigent thought, injudicious and deleterious should he pursue it, planted itself in his brain. Her lips, turned up in so pleasing and rare a smile, were a temptation he found almost irresistible.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Three…four…now spin…no, no," the seneschal sighed, exasperation unchecked in both tenor and demeanor.

The dancers faltered to a stop and there was a long silence, broken only by Grace's snicker which was in preparation of yet another colorful and cutting commentary on her remarkable skill as a dancer. She was not disappointed, nor did she have long to wait. He pointed a long, tapered finger at her and botheration was thick in his tone.

"When I instruct you to spin you should execute a graceful pirouette, not flail about like a floundering fish!"

Unaffected by the censure and aggravation in his voice, Grace turned to her partner with a grin. "I feel confident that our taskmaster refers to your blunderous and altogether lamentable turns, Saemus," she said, imbuing her words with sorrow. "Poor Saemus."

A noise not dissimilar to the sound of a crow being strangled originated from the direction of their dance instructor. "Yes, it's completely unfathomable that I might ascribe such gracelessness to you, Serah Hawke."

Grace winked at Saemus before turning to smile at the seneschal masquerading as a dancing-master. "That statement would have been profoundly more ironic had you used my given name," she remarked dryly, staring intently at him. A feeling of triumph fluttered through her as she saw the barest hint of a smile adorn the seneschal's lips.

"Sorry, partner, it's my fault, I think," Saemus interjected. He turned to Bran and continued, "I keep missing the part where I'm supposed to release her hand. She can't really spin if I'm clutching at her like a country clod."

"That is most bounteous of you, Saemus, but you would release my hand at precisely the perfect moment if Seneschal Bran would count with any sort of rhythm."

Bran's sneer at her proclamation made Grace feel murderous but his words, oddly, dispelled that desire. "I am hardly surprised you seek to blame me for your own deficiencies in mastering a simple _Branle des Marchers_."

"_Simple_? There is nothing _simple_ about a Branle or a Marcher. I cannot imagine a dance including _both_ elements would be _simple_, either. Although, now I think upon the matter, I'm forced to ask if you are implying that you are a 'simple Marcher', Seneschal Bran. And by which definition shall we assess the merits of your simplicity?" Grace asked with a broad wink at her dance partner.

Saemus looked away, his smile blindingly bright, before saying, "I believe she may have won this round, Bran."

"Iniquitous child, haven't you somewhere else to be?" Bran snapped.

"I'm assuming that isn't a complimentary word," Saemus replied, causing Grace to chuckle even though she had promised herself she would not.

"Your assumption does you credit, Saemus," Bran replied with a stiff-lipped arrogance that made Grace long to pull his hair... sharply and repeatedly.

With a bow and an impenitent grin, Saemus took his leave. The flautist cleared his throat, an anxious and not altogether pleasing sound. He appeared quite desperate to leave as well, but the seneschal affixed a wintry gaze on him and he meekly resumed playing.

"We have been at this for nearly an hour. Are you in need of a break?" the seneschal inquired. Grace raised a brow of disapprobation and he replied in kind.

"In that case, do you feel able to follow a lead, or are you determined to take control of the dance as you do everything else in your life?" he continued.

"I believe I can restrain myself, just this once," she replied dryly.

"On my count, then."

The next hour flew by and Grace was astounded by Bran's mastery of dance, even more amazed by her ability to follow him and feel light on her feet, though she would rather swallow her tongue than give voice to such thoughts. She felt as if she was thistledown floating on air currents, and that thought caused her to stumble in a most inept and bungling manner. Bran was unable to stifle the little grunt of pain as she trod on his toe and he came to an abrupt stop.

The flautist packed up his instrument and departed post-haste. As soon as the door closed behind him, Grace sank into a credible curtsy and batted her lashes at Bran. "I declare, Bran Drummond, you are a marvel of grace and elegance upon the dance floor."

Bran's cheeks, flushed from the exertion of the Galliarde they had performed, mottled as more color flooded into them. Poor man, to blush so unattractively has to cause him a great deal of consternation, Grace thought and then immediately pushed that thought out of her head with as much force as she could summon after nearly two hours of dancing.

"Is it impossible for you to offer a simple expression of appreciation without such theatrics?" he asked, but she noted with some satisfaction that he bent his knee and then assisted her as she rose.

Rather than finding offense in his words, Grace found herself laughing. "It is not impossible, no, merely improbable," she said and then stopped to stare at him, feeling a tightness in her chest and a dip in her belly that made her take a step back. Maker, he had the thickest eyelashes she had ever seen on man or woman. And when he looked at her from beneath their fringe it made her thoughts run helter-skelter.

"You have mastered only two of the sixteen dances that you will be required to perform at the ball. I suggest weekly lessons until that time."

"I – yes, I suppose I can arrange to be in attendance." Maker, where had all the moisture in her mouth gone? She took another step away from him and looked at the floor, memorizing each vein of black running through the marble squares.

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am in search of a healer. I believe my instep to be permanently bruised."

"Such flattery, Seneschal Bran. Pray be careful lest you turn my head."

"Good evening, Grace."

Once the door was shut, she performed her dance of gloatiness, albeit with tired feet, wondering if he was even aware that he had called her by her given name without prompting. She slipped off her kid slippers and placed them in her pack before pulling her boots on and fairly floating home.

Lovely and inviting smells assaulted her nose and she followed them to their origination, her stomach leading the charge. Her mother was just sitting down to dinner and she smiled in greeting, waving at Grace to sit down.

"How was the dance lesson, dear? Need I send for Anders to repair broken toes or swollen ankles?" her mother asked.

_I could have danced all night_. It was on the tip of her tongue, the words fairly begging in their need to be given voice. Aghast, she held tightly to her silence. She'd be thrice cursed by the Maker before she would admit such a thing to anyone, even herself, about the puffed-up, pretentious, contentious man. But he'd seemed softer somehow, as if someone had smudged the edges of a portrait to make it appear almost dreamlike.

And in that dream, she saw her hand reach up and brush the thick auburn hair away from his forehead, allowing her fingers to thread through the silken locks.

She was obviously suffering a malignant malady of unknown origins, else why would her fevered mind create such a nightmare?

"I believe it may be too late for Anders," she announced glumly.


	8. Flowers and Arrangements

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your advice and uber beta skills._  
_Thank you to all who are following the (mis)adventures of Lady Grace and Seneschal Bran!_

**Flowers and Arrangements**

"Mother, I won't be home for dinner tonight, so if you've planned some impromptu event please accept both my condolences at having to sit through such an affair, and my apologies for disappointing you and your plans."

Grace watched as her mother ate the last of her toast points with dainty precision, never once smacking her carefully pursed lips or allowing a single crumb to land on the lacy white fichu that adorned her neck. _Maker, how long had she worked on that knot?_ Grace mentally rolled her eyes, admonishing herself never to become such a slave to fashion, reaching for another helping of cold ham.

"My dear, you cannot continue to eat in such a porcine manner. It simply _isn't _done," her mother tutted reprovingly.

Speaking around a mouthful of the deliciously smoked meat, Grace replied, "Apparently it _is_ done, Mother, as is evidenced by your ravenous daughter. However, I applaud your irony in using the word 'porcine' to describe my manner whilst I was eating ham."

A moment of silence fell and then a titter, quickly stifled, came from the direction of her mother. Grace, having finally eaten her fill, set her knife and fork aside, picked up the perfectly folded serviette and delicately patted her mouth before turning to her mother with a bright smile.

"Perhaps, if you wish me to starve in my own house, you should arrange fewer epicurean delights and instead return to the meager and altogether unremarkable fare we were _gifted_ with whilst staying with Uncle Gamlen?"

"Honestly, Grace, I don't know why I bother in my attempts to instill even the tiniest bit of social –"

"I beg your pardon, Lady Leandra, but Serahs Anders and Varric have arrived and are most insistent on seeing Lady Grace," Bodahn intervened, bowing his head slightly and looking sheepish.

"Bodahn, you are a savior, let _none_ dispute that!" Grace cried, leaping from her seat and throwing her serviette on the table. She dipped her head and struggled to arrange an appropriate expression of remorse upon her features, but her smile of relief refused to relinquish its hold on her lips.

"Grace, try to keep safe. I do not wish to have you brought home intoxicated or infirm. Just this once take pity on your poor mother and come home without so much as a scrape, and do so _without _staggering."

Dropping a quick, reassuring kiss on her mother's cheek, Grace whispered, "No promises, Mother, but I'll try. Don't worry so. Even I am not so cruel as to bring ruination upon all your stratagems to present me to the nobles."

With that, Grace went in search of her friends, who had timed their arrival with utter perfection. Bodahn had thoughtfully put them in the library and she found Anders gazing at the tidy rows of manuscripts and tomes with an expression of devotion usually reserved for the pious viewing Andraste's golden countenance.

"Is that really an illustrated manuscript of Dylan's "Masters of War" or am I suffering from delusions?"

"Rest easy, Anders, you are not suffering from delusions; at least not with regard to the manuscript."

"Oh right, remind me that Ser Stick-up-the-Arse is present," the mage replied, rolling his eyes in the manner of a child.

"We are not amused," Justice intoned. "Nor are we impressed with your late night carousing."

"Justice, it is considered ill-mannered and _unjust_ to eavesdrop on someone's conversations. By extension, that includes remarking upon one's inebriation or lack thereof," Grace chastised, as she had innumerable times. She found it disconcerting whenever Justice made his presence known, although, in truth, it was those times when he was spewing blue fire and ranting like a bloodthirsty demon that she was most perturbed by his appearance.

"Is it not unjust for Anders to treat our body with such blatant disrespect?" Justice asked with cold dignity.

"The mistake you make, _dear_ Justice, is that you presume. And – "

"Bloody oath, _will _you two stop bickering!" Anders interposed, throwing his hands up in despair. "Why you goad him is beyond me," the mage grumbled, glaring at her.

Contrition rearing its guilty head, Grace went to him and gave him the briefest of hugs. She had learned early in their acquaintance that to give him an inch meant he would take a mile, and any sign of affection meant declarations of undying infatuation on his part.

Once the ruffled feathers of his robes were smoothed, Grace asked, "Not that I am in any way unhappy by your visit, but what brings you here so early of a morn?"

"Hawke, you need to spend more time at the Hanged Man," Varric sighed. "You sound like Lady Arabella Atherton Achingarse with that snooty way of speaking you've adopted."

"Oh, Maker, not Lady Achingarse! I was striving for Lady Barbara Beastlyboring, of the Starkhaven Beastlyborings," Grace replied with a matching sigh, if a tad more dramatic in its presentation.

Anders snickered as he helped himself to a bright red apple, whose previous domicile had been a large silver bowl with several of its friends and relatives. The mage carefully polished the apple on his sleeve and was just about to partake of its sweetness when he stopped and eyed it suspiciously.

"This is _real_ fruit, isn't it? I've seen the stuff made of wax down at the market. Waxed and painted fruit? Why would you bother?"

"That is, indeed, real. And the reason for such things should be apparent: to keep those of inferior standing from eating the nobility out of house and home, or, at the very least, fruit."

"Parsimonious prigs," Anders said, imitating Grace so ably that even Varric chuckled.

"So, other than insulting me and partaking of my fruit…erm, that came out quite differently than I'd intended…why are you both here? Not to say I'm not happy you are, but …"

"Merrill has locked herself in her house and claims she's too busy to talk to anyone."

"Oh, no, what imbroglio has she become involved with this time? Or is it some capricious notion that has entered her head? She can't _still_ be moping over that tome of forbidden knowledge incident, can she? Truly, it is a riddle for the ages," she said and then adopted a deep, chilling voice to continue, "I have forbidden knowledge that I don't want anyone to have so I'll just put it all in a trusty tome and hide it most conspicuously. How wise am I and how gullible is the one who finds it and uses my forbidden knowledge!"

Anders chuckled. "So you destroyed it, and I'm not disagreeing, mind you, but Merrill wanted to have a peek at it before you did."

"She is a blood mage; isn't that enough forbidden knowledge for one person?" Grace shot back.

"You know how Daisy is, Hawke. She needs people to believe in her. Bad enough her clan doesn't trust her, but you kind of reinforced that with that whole tirade thing you did about crazy blood mages and the world going to the Void in a fruit basket because of them."

"Thank you for reminding me what an unadulterated and absolute harridan I can be, Varric," she said wryly, adding, "I'll just change and pay her a visit, although why it took both of you to come and make me feel as tiny as a gnat's baby, I don't know."

"Ha, funny you should bring that up. We'll talk on the way to Merrill's."

That did nothing to alleviate her suspicions or her growing sense of dread, but she ran upstairs and hastily changed out of her gown and into her leathers, wondering what kind of trouble Merrill had stumbled into.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Oh, Hawke, I didn't expect you he – they told you, didn't they? In my clan, it was _always_ the men who were the most gossipy, too. I should have known better than to – have you had tea? I was just about to – oh, you have much finer tea than I could – my, is that Dalish leather? It looks quite – oh, come in –" Merrill blathered.

"Stop! Merrill, it's me, Grace! That means there's nothing to be worried about, no need to babble. The boys and I were just sporting about and thought we'd pop round and pay you a visit."

Merrill's large eyes blinked owlishly and she stopped twisting her fingers into sailor's knots. "Oh! Of course. I'm sorry. Why would I think those two worry-mongers would tell you about the Eluvian or the tome I found?" she asked, her smile sad around the edges.

"Right. About the Eluvian thing. Could you just kind of explain it a bit to me? Varric and Anders said it had a mesmerizing effect on you and they were – would you two men either sit down or wait outside? You're hovering like a pair of devout Andrastians intent on converting the heathens."

The craven cowards left with enough haste to raise dust in their wake. "Now, tell me what's going on, Merrill. You're as pale as pearls."

Merrill, sitting rather abruptly on a dusty chair, gave a nervous titter. "You do get to the heart of the matter, thank the Creators. I know I'm a bit scatterbrained, but I'm not the idiot those two believe I am. Yes, I'm working on the Eluvian but that doesn't mean it has control of me."

"What is that, exactly?"

"Come, I'll show you. Mind the clutter."

"You really ought to consider moving out of this hov – house and into something a bit roomier."

"I'll do that, Hawke. I'll move in next to you, shall I?"

"Oh, I wish you would. It would make the Arenbergs' heads explode in unison. I'd pay good coin to watch that."

Merrill giggled. "Are they the ones who prance around naked with their curtains open?"

"Yes, can't you just imagine their expressions should you move in next door? Not that the people who actually live next door would happily relinquish their house to someone," Grace replied.

For the next hour, Grace was regaled with the tale of the Eluvian's history, which was not a cheerful tale. "And you think these tomes of forbidden knowledge will help you restore a piece of your history? I'm sorry, I don't see the connection," Grace admitted honestly, all pretenses and airs falling away.

She took a deep breath before continuing, "You've been ostracized, demonized and cast out of your clan over this mirror and the compact you made with a demon, yet you wish to continue in hope of returning a piece of their history to them, which they will refuse because it's been tainted by dark magic and darkspawn plague? In the end, you must ask yourself, and reply truthfully, if it is worth the price."

Merrill's face crumpled and tears tracked down her face, sending Grace into a panic. She hated tears. Hated hers, hated others' even more. There was no surer way of making her feel utterly helpless. She jumped out of her chair as if it had scalded her derriere and went to Merrill's side, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"I know it seems – but I loved – oh it doesn't mat – I'm fine, Hawke, don't fuss."

"Merrill, the tomes of forbidden knowledge are dangerous. I suspect the mirror is too, given its nature and the fact that you, who can ill afford it, have lost weight, color _and _sleep while trying to repair it. Then there's this calamitous business of why you became a blood mage to begin with. It seems an ill-conceived plan to continue to allow it such power in your life, Merrill. Don't the Dalish have a council of some sort that studies lost artifacts? You know, something like the Council for the Study of Antiquities, Oddities and Absurdities or something?"

"I know what I'm doing, Hawke," Merrill argued, with enough anger in her voice to make Grace blink in surprise.

"Then I'll say no more about it, but please, Merrill, come out for a walk with me. Have tea with Mother. You know she adores your tales of Dalish Derring-Do," Grace lied with a bright smile.

She wasn't entirely sure it was a lie. Her mother appeared to enjoy the tales but she also professed a love for Antivan brandy in certain company, and Grace knew that the woman would rather slurp her soup in public than have a drop of Antivan brandy pass her lips. It was, her mother had claimed, a polite lie, which did not really count as a sin. Grace was still curious to hear the real reason behind the abhorrence of such a smooth and delicious tasting beverage, but had yet to pry the information from her surprisingly reticent mother.

To Grace's relief, it took mere moments for Merrill to freshen up and join her for the walk from Lowtown's alienage to the Amell estate. Anders and Varric, to Grace's disgust, hightailed it to the Hanged Man once they saw Merrill step out of her house.

"You owe me, you timorous toads," she hissed as they made their farewells.

"We're good for it," Varric called over his shoulder and scurried away as quickly as his stumpy little legs could carry him.

Grace, linking arms with Merrill, started off with a brisk, if unladylike, stride and Merrill easily kept up with her. With every step they took, color bloomed in the elf's cheeks and before long, she was smiling. Making a mental note to keep Merrill occupied at the mansion and away from the dingy little shanty she called home, Grace turned onto her street feeling inordinately pleased with herself, which brought an insufferable smile to her lips, which slipped slightly when she saw the appealingly attractive and agreeable Aubrey Pentaghast approaching them.

"Lady Grace, I confess that I had hope of encountering you here on the street where you live," the fashionable noble said in his deep, clear voice as he flashed his most charming smile at her. He politely ignored Merrill, waiting to be introduced, as was proper.

Grace, by no means taken in by his charm, much to her regret, wondered if he thought Merrill was her lady's maid. Time to disabuse him of that notion, she gloated. "Lord Aubrey Pentaghast, this is the esteemed and estimable Merrill, First to the Keeper of the Sabrae Clan, and a dear, _dear_ friend," Grace introduced effusively, her smile as bright as a polished sovereign caught in the midday sun.

"I – it is a rare privilege to meet a woman of such standing," Lord Aubrey managed, skillfully hiding any surprise he might have at being introduced to a member of the savage Dalish.

Grace's smile grew as she realized it was not surprise that lit up his dark eyes, but curiosity. He was intrigued with Merrill's title and, judging by the way his gaze constantly found their way to the intricate markings, equally fascinated by her tattoos.

"I would not wish to force myself upon you as you seem quite content in each other's company, but I am most desirous of a private word when you are able to accommodate my wish, Lady Grace. Perhaps you would do me the great honor of allowing me to escort you on a walk this afternoon? A promenade through the formal gardens?"

Grace did not care for the way her heart skipped about in her chest like loose change in a pocket, and she found herself nodding, much to her disgust.

"I will call on you at two of the clock, if that meets with your approval?"

"I look forward to it, Lord Aubrey."

She ignored the tittering bubbling forth from Merrill.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The letter slipped from Bran's fingers, fluttering down to rest on the pile of letters that claimed kinship with the rejected missive. Another request for a brothel in the Red Lantern District, as if the three already in business weren't enough of a headache, he thought, aware that his frown was adding new lines. He sighed, trying to release the tension of his neck and shoulders, banishing the frown to the Void. It seemed predisposed to remaining where it was.

Pacing his office helped not a whit and Bran found himself striding the length of the ante-chamber. He was about to start his third circuit of the room when the viscount's voice reached his ears.

"Bran, have you seen the latest proposal for the guards? That woman obviously is quite touched in the head!"

His frown deepening at the viscount's casual disregard for discretion, Bran entered Marlowe's office and quietly closed the door, his restraint admirable if only in his own mind.

"Ah, good, I wasn't sure you heard me with all that glowering and stomping going on," the viscount said, motioning him to a chair. Bran grudgingly sat down, his ire only increased by the puckish humor his friend was intent on sharing with him.

"I was not _stomping_, your Grace. I was stretching my legs after a morning spent at my desk tending to matters of great importance to the city of Kirkwall," he began, dimly aware of how exceedingly portentous and ponderous his speech was. Maker, he was becoming a caricature of himself. How had that happened?

"Yes, yes, the city is in a ruinous state, but I've an urgent matter that requires your immediate assistance. Discreetly," Marlowe added in a quiet whisper, glancing about the room as if he expected a horde of people to be there, all scribbling notes with great diligence.

Such theatrics certainly put him in the same class as both Leandra and ...now why had his mind decided to stroll down that street? He blinked, refocusing his attention – and thoughts – on his superior, although that seemed an ill-suited moniker at the moment.

"What grave matter has distracted you from the real business at hand, your Grace? A new wine merchant unfairly charging you full price for his wares? Hateful rumors circulating amongst the nobility impugning your ability to sit a horse properly?"

"Upon my honor! Are those miscreants at it again? I defy even the most seasoned of riders to stay astride when a cinch strap breaks and the saddle wiggles around all willy-nilly!"

And with that, Bran's tension eased, finding release in laughter. "Indeed, your Grace. And so you proved at Duke de Montfort's last hunt."

Marlowe shot him a heated look. "Obviously you have forgotten that I hired you as my personal sycophant," he scoffed but his humor overtook his heat and both men shared a moment of levity before Marlowe's expression once again turned serious.

"What are your thoughts on Lady Leandra?"

The abrupt change in the direction of the conversation left Bran momentarily speechless, an event that Lady Leandra's daughter would celebrate, no doubt. That his thoughts took him there gave him a moment's pause but the viscount's piercing blue eyes were demanding an answer and Bran gathered his scattered thoughts.

"She is all that is graceful and charming, your Grace."

"Fustian nonsense, Bran, don't play the toady _now_. What do you really think?"

_I think you're asking the question much too late. It's obvious your infatuation with Leandra has reawakened after all these years. I think you don't need my approval or permission to court her_. _I think marrying the Widow Hawke will make you wildly popular with both the people of Hightown and those of Lowtown. I think it doesn't matter what I think, your mind is quite noticeably set on her._ Bran smiled as his thoughts flitted through his brain in rapid succession. "I stand by my earlier statement, Viscount Dumar. She is all that is graceful and charming."

"She is, isn't she? I thought I'd send her some flowers. Or is that sort of thing no longer done?"

"How addle-pated the lady has you that you would inquire such a thing of me," Bran replied, ignoring the sharp, quick stab of pain the thought caused his ego. "The marriage mart and all its outlandish strictures of behavior are far beyond my sphere of interest."

A shadow of remorse, no more, and then he was once again the seneschal. "However, I believe Leandra has always been partial to blue irises and yellow roses, though not in the same arrangement, I wouldn't think. Just refrain from sending white lilies. She abhors them, as I recall."

"Oh, right. I remember now. She had her mother in fits because she insisted on removing the topiary garden in favor of a rose garden. Thank you, Bran. Now, was there something you needed? I could find out what flowers young Grace favors?"

"I imagine she is more partial to weeds than flowers, your Grace," Bran said dismissively and then took his leave, quashing the image of her holding a bouquet of wildflowers, a smile curving her lips. He was in great danger of becoming the biggest nodcock in Kirkwall and possibly beyond.

What he needed was to pay a visit to Serendipity. He sent word to the Blooming Rose, requesting the services of Serendipity for that evening, via a trusted young courier.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You look quite fetching, Lady Grace," Lord Aubrey remarked, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and escorting her along the shaded path of the formal gardens.

Grace thought it was actually Aubrey Pentaghast who looked quite fetching. In fact, he was the epitome of masculine allurement in his dark green doublet and snug doeskin breeches. His boots, polished to a blinding sheen, encased his well-formed calves and ended just above his knee. She thought it quite possible that he and Isabela used the same cobbler. His hair was tied back in a perfect queue, held in place by a fashionably plain black silk ribbon, and though his clothes were not ostentatious in cut or color they appeared somehow flamboyant.

She, on the other hand, wore a plain roundgown of light blue, trimmed with white cuffs and collar and adorned with a row of pearl buttons. Her hair was in its customary single braid, tied with a white ribbon. There was nothing out of the ordinary about her gown or her manner, but he fawned over her with persistence.

"Do you not find the gardens quite amiable?" he continued. His voice was velvet and moonlight, she thought, cultivated and deliberately charming. She could listen to it for hours, should it ever find something sensible to say.

Glancing around, she found the neat rows of flowers and pretentiously trimmed hedges lackluster and lifeless. She preferred the wild profusion of flowers that had grown in happy abundance in the fields surrounding Lothering, not these prim and proper roses that clung to their modesty and refused to open their lush petals to the sun's warmth.

"Yes, quite amiable, thank you for your kind inquiry," she responded, hoping he didn't hear the hint of derision in her tones.

Why, she wondered as they continued their stroll, were so many exceptionally attractive men completely ham-fisted, bacon-brained shams? A brief image of Bran rose and she blinked rapidly until it was gone. She adamantly refused to allow him entry into her thoughts.

They stopped beneath a spreading oak tree and he took her hand, bringing it to his lips and bestowing a soft, grazing kiss along her gloved knuckles that set her heart pattering quickly across her chest like a dancer with her slippers ablaze. Why did the man, who had charm to spare, but brains to let, make her feel like a green girl, all fluttery and foolish? She wasn't at all interested in him, so why was she behaving so fatuously?

"Lady Grace, I find myself drawn to you, unable to resist your lovely charms. Your eyes are mesmerizing, drawing me in and I find myself thinking of you constantly. I have often walked down your street before, but the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before," he continued, drawing her closer. "Now, all I can think of is you; your perfectly drawn lips, your sparkling laugh. Pray allow me the honor of courting you, my darling woman."

She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent both a moan and a snicker to escape. He was all that was desirous in physique, if only he wouldn't speak. There was also the matter of his not having a feather to fly with; it was obvious to her that he was more interested in her accounts than her countenance. Still, he _was_ easy on the eye.

"You have me all aflutter, Lord Aubrey. You move with dazzling speed," she added, lowering her lashes and smiling in what she hoped was a demure and not a demented manner.

"I beg your pardon, I am too bold," he agreed and stepped back to bow formally. "In my defense, Lady Grace, it is to your credit. You are truly a diamond of the highest order."

"Fustian, Lord Aubrey. Lady Harriman's daughter, Flora, is all that is lovely, and Count Mawbrey's daughter, Hortensia, is brilliant and beautiful. I am, in every way, quite ordinary, I assure you."

"I disagree most strenuously, Lady Grace. Lady Flora is flighty and Lady Hortensia has been hardened by her years in Orlais at the university."

Laughter again tickled at her throat and she was in grave danger of choking on it. She looked at the swain who gazed upon her with such earnestness and thought he might be every bit as good an actor as she was an actress.

It was that insight that made her laughter arrive like an unannounced guest. Seen in the proper light he was a great deal more entertaining than she had allowed, she realized. As they set off in the direction of her street, she concluded that it might be fun to pursue him whilst he pursued her, not with the intent of catching or being caught, but for the sheer amusement of it. Or it would be the most havey-cavey bit of nonsense she had engaged in to date. She stopped and picked a small rosebud from a bush and handed it to him with a coy smile.

She noticed, with no small amount of humor, that his feet did remain on the pavement, contrary to his earlier declaration.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"So…you and Aubrey Pentaghast? Is he really as well built as he appears?"

Grace's eyes flew open. "Is there nothing that is not fuel for the flibbertigibbets and scandalizers of Kirkwall?"

"Darling, you must have known that walking out with Lord Lustful would be noticed by _everyone_ who is _anyone_ in this city."

Grace attempted to lift her head, prepared to argue, but Serendipity's able hands held her firmly pinned to the table as the masseuse used her elbows on some particularly tight muscles. "Two clients managed to tell me within the space of as many hours."

"I did, as it so happens, walk out with Lord Lustful, and had a merry time of it, as well."

"You didn't!" Serendipity gasped.

"I assure you that I most certainly did," Grace affirmed, recounting Lord Aubrey's interest in her and their walk in the formal gardens.

"How _delicious_! Do you think he'll come up to scratch?"

"Absolutely not. He hasn't a farthing to fling, has he? Or anything even resembling a well formed thought. Why I must read a veritable library of books when it's as plain as a pikestaff that Lord Aubrey and his ilk haven't the ability to read at all, is quite beyond me. And, what did the Pentaghasts do with all their money? Weren't they dragon hunters? Dragonbone, not to mention the scales, sell for a great deal of money."

"Well, darling, _I_ assure you they didn't spend any of it on me," Serendipity replied, grinning mischievously.

Grace, laying face down on the table while Serendipity massaged her knotted muscles, smiled. "How silly and short-sighted of them."

Serendipity's laughter trilled as she continued her ministrations. "I agree with you. I'm quite upon the ropes over their censure."

Drowsy and relaxed, Grace closed her eyes and let her mind wander as Madame Lusine's most talented and infamous bawd continued her soothing attention. It was long moments before the elf spoke again.

"What will poor Varric do without his brother, do you suppose?"

"Become a happier dwarf, I suspect. He made no move to stop me as I was prepared to skewer the disreputable dwarf…without remorse, I might add." Grace paused until the knot in her throat and the memory of her sister dissolved. To her great relief, Serendipity remained respectfully silent but not overtly sympathetic.

"However," she continued when her voice was under control, "I felt it was Varric's right to decide Bartrand's future. How pleased I was that his thoughts and mine fell into such happy accord. And then, quite out of the blue, Aveline appeared, like some avenging spirit, to explain that murder was not to be tolerated with the borders of Kirkwall. Well, she didn't explain so much as lecture. Hmm. Truth be told, it was more of a harangue then a lecture. By the time she was finished, I believe Bartrand was pleading that I take his life rather than be carted off to the dungeons in her company."

"So what happened? I know he's dead, how did it come about?"

"Bartrand decided to flee, but Bianca decided otherwise. Poor Varric. He seems well enough, but I had Mother send round a bottle of Antivan brandy. Of course she added a bouquet of flowers. I can only imagine his confusion over that."

"How did Aveline know you were meeting him?"

"Seneschal Bran, that meddlesome man."

"He was here earlier. He seemed quite blue-deviled, poor man. I imagine he's a bit jealous of your suitor."

"What a bag of moonshine! He would be most happy were I to depart the city and quite possibly the Free Marches altogether. He hasn't the least interest in me."

"Oh, listen to you. How _adorable_. You two have developed feelings for each other."

Grace refused to deny something so utterly without merit. Long moments of silence followed. She was horrified to hear a sigh escape her, as if she was some moonstruck, rattle-pated chit rather than an articulate, commonsensical adult. She could only hope that Serendipity chose to ignore the momentary lapse.

Finishing with a flourish, the elf stepped back and Grace, pulling the sheet around her, rolled onto her back and sat up.

"Have you any more of that oil? The rosemary and mint bath oil? I've run out," she asked, smiling at her masseuse and friend.

"It's in the storeroom. I'll get it and add it to your bill while you dress. Same time next week or will you visit more frequently now that you have a beau? You'll probably have a new set of sore muscles before long, naughty lady," Serendipity teased with a knowing smirk.

"The usual arrangements will suffice, thank you very much," Grace responded with a good-natured laugh.

As soon as the door shut behind the elf, Grace stood up, her back to the door as she clutched the sheet to her. Reaching for her neatly folded clothes, she allowed the sheet to fall to the floor as she prepared to dress. A knock on the door sent her scrambling behind the ornate screen a few feet away.

Peeking around the edge of the screen, Grace's jaw played tag with her toes as it dropped. Bran entered the room, a small bouquet of pale yellow daffodils in his hand. "Serendipity?" he called softly.

Grace cleared her throat, sending useless prayers skyward to the Maker that the seneschal find his way out of the room on the quick march. "Serendipity!" he called again.

To her disgust, Grace found herself holding her breath. What an unmitigated fool she was to be cowering behind a screen holding her breath because of _him_. She let it out in one, long, impatient sigh. "She isn't here, obviously!" she said, her voice a lovely mixture of incivility and insolence. Wouldn't her mother be proud of her? "Just leave the flowers and I'll tell her you were here," she continued, adding ice to the incivility and insolence. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"You! Is there no place in Kirkwall I might visit that you won't eventually invade?"

"How dare you, you malicious, malignant misanthrope!" she snarled, stepping out from behind the screen. Why was she so angry? It wasn't as if she cared that he was bringing flowers to Serendipity!

"You maleficent, malevolent malcon – Maker's grace, have you no sense of decorousness whatsoever? Were you raised by wolves to behave in so brazen and audacious a manner? " Bran asked, arms folded so tightly that he was crushing the bouquet of flowers.

Grace looked down at her current _dishabille_ and then, making a great show of nonchalance, she stepped behind the screen, grinning. "I am as decorous as you are compassionate, Seneschal Bran," she replied sweetly. She took several satisfyingly deep breaths and finished dressing before she continued, "And, had I known beforehand that the way to stop your maundering prattle was to stand about in my smalls, I'd have done so much sooner, I assure you," she finished with great aplomb.

"Who are you talking to?"

Lacing her round gown, Grace stepped out from behind the screen again, fully clad, to find the seneschal absent and Serendipity grinning slyly in his place. Just as well. She'd made a big enough cake of herself for one evening.

Without another word, she marched out of the Blooming Rose, head held high and chin tilted defiantly. Never had the walk seemed so long before. She blamed the seneschal, who was no doubt blaming her.

"Hello, my darling girl. How was your evening?"

"How was my evening? How was my evening, you ask? There are…there are no words to describe how horrendous my evening has been. None. I am rendered speechless. Truly," Grace replied, dramatically draping herself across a chair and arranging her face in such sad lines that she felt sure her pose of abject misery would wring tears from a stone.

"Lovely, dear. Now, run upstairs and change. Marlowe and Bran are coming over for an evening of cards."


	9. Luck of the Draw

**A/N:** _Thank you, Lisa, for your wonderful beta goodness and the equally wonderful compliment._

_Thank you, Seika, for the awesome artwork of Bran and Grace that I'm now using as the book-cover. You rock and I'm honored that you created this perfect reflection of them! You can find a link to her work on my profile page. She's amazing._

_The card game is based loosely on Whist, with a bit of Bridge thrown in, and a smidge of Liar's Bridge, which my sisters and I totally made up in order to mock my parents for taking their Bridge games so seriously. _

**Luck of the Draw**

Bran tossed the mangled bouquet into the dustbin, fastidiously wiping his hands as he stared at the crumpled yellow petals. What in the Maker's name had possessed him to stop by the Blooming Rose? Surely he could have had the flowers sent to Serendipity as a sign of appreciation rather than delivering them to her in person? Yes, she had rearranged her schedule without complaint, working her magic on the tight knots of tension in his back and shoulders, but that hardly called for him to show up like some twittering buffoon to present her with her favorite flowers in appreciation of her efforts.

To have Grace Hawke there, of all people, was insupportable. He'd made a complete fool of himself; a great lumbering lummox who deserved any and all censure she was inclined to heap upon his head. And how had she managed, as often as she was in the brambles, not to have a veritable trove of scars crisscrossing her – Maker's breath, he was _not_ going to allow his mind to travel that path _yet_ again. He felt an uncomfortable warmth suffuse his body and took himself upstairs, where cool water and clean clothes awaited him. He splashed his face diligently until his skin lost its blazing heat.

His mind turned again, without his permission, to the gleaming expanse of skin, and while there had been remarkably few scars, he had noticed a curling 's' shaped scar on her torso and the image rose of tracing it with his tongue – no! No he was not going to allow his mind to wander into that particular field. Once again he bathed his face in the cool water, willing himself to remember the reasons why he refused to become entangled in a woman's web.

After several moments of mindless pacing, Bran wandered to the portrait of his son, which hung in the place of honor over the fireplace in his bedchamber. A pang of guilt stabbed him, effectively slaying any romantic aspirations, however transitory, that he might harbor for Grace Hawke. He studied the painting, missing his son more than he thought possible and resolving to write to him in the morning, to arrange a meeting in the near future.

Keir Drummond looked nothing like his mother and very much like his father. From the jet black hair to the dark brown eyes and swarthy skin, he was a reminder of a failed marriage, a public humiliation and a woman's true nature. As much as he loved Keir, it was impossible not to discern the truth of his parentage when gazing upon him. And while Bran was able to overlook the obvious truth and love his son as if he were his own flesh and blood, the city rumormongers were not willing to abide by those same precepts.

In order to spare his son the pain of gossip and accusations no child should have to bear, Keir remained in Tantervale with his grandparents. Bran had no idea where his faithless wife had gone when she'd departed, leaving a week old boy alone in the house. He only knew she had died three years after fleeing with her lover, and that she'd been alone, living in a hovel in a fishing village along the northern coast of Rivain. He could not find it within himself to care enough to find out more.

His thoughts drifted as shadows filled the room. Night was creeping silently over the city and he set about preparing for an evening of cards that would not be pleasant, he felt sure. The moment he turned away from the portrait, and with preternatural stubbornness, his thoughts fell once again to Grace.

Why did she come so easily to overtake his other thoughts? And worse, why had he allowed himself to be coerced into playing cards with the Hawke women? He pinched the bridge of his nose, and though his eyes wanted to close, he refused to allow them, all too aware that the image of Grace Hawke sans clothing would be right behind his lids waiting to mock him.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Grace paced her bedroom while pondering the ramifications of moving to a larger room; preferably in a different city and as far from Kirkwall as possible. Surely, as the daughter of the grand and glorious Lady Amell-Hawke, she was deserving of majestic, airy quarters with enough space for such necessary activities as pacing, especially if said space was located somewhere in the Anderfels.

Her mother was punishing her; that was it. The smaller room, the destruction of her favored apparel and even the hastily arranged card game were all part of a conspiracy to punish Grace. It was so obvious to her now she wondered how she could have failed to observe all the signs before.

Well, of course she was being punished, and not just by her mother, but by the Fates themselves. Why else would that puffed-up, presumptuous prig have shown up at the most inappropriate and iniquitous moment? Not, she told herself with a proud toss of her head, that she hadn't shown him exactly what she was made of. She groaned, stopping momentarily to cover her eyes, as if that would make the image disappear.

Of all the caper-witted performances, stepping out from behind the screen had been the most cork-brained to date. She had deftly handed him the perfect fodder for his future harangues. She would throttle the seneschal quite cheerfully were it not for the fact that she'd land in the gaol for such an act, not that such a thing was a complete deterrent, considering recent events.

She swerved around the bedpost and stalked to her armoire, searching again for her old, comfortable clothes. Damn that larcenous, light-fingered dandiprat for absconding with her favorite attire! Well, perhaps not the latter; he obviously wasn't an insignificant fellow, at least not in her mother's eyes, or he would never have been allowed such liberties with her wardrobe.

That thought made her cringe away from the scene at the brothel, although an odd heat crawled into her blood as she recalled the look in his – no! No! _No_! She would be thrice damned by the Maker if she allowed her thoughts to meander in that direction yet again. She _would not _allow her brain, no matter how much it desired otherwise, to even think of such things.

She stared into the armoire, dithering over the choices left to her, settling at last on the plainest dress. To the Void with that despicable man, who would no doubt blame her for the entire episode! She huffed as she pulled the pale grey dress over her head, an act that sent her hair tumbling down. To the Void with his warm brown eyes and his – damnation, what was wrong with her? She let out a low growl of outraged sensibilities. She was rapidly becoming a missish peagoose and she would not tolerate such behavior in herself. How dare _he_ invade her head with such dogged determination? She firmly slammed the door on any thoughts of the acidulous churl.

Orana, with a talent that Grace neither understood nor possessed, arrived at precisely the moment Grace was twisting herself into knots trying to hook her gown in the back. Why, she wondered, did designers and seamstresses insist on putting the fastenings in the back of the gown when it clearly rendered the hooks useless to an ordinary person?

And she was not about to accede to the demands of the demented designers by slipping into the narrow, high-heeled, pointy-toed torture racks that passed themselves off as shoes. She reached for her plain black leather slippers, which, to her dismay, Orana immediately insisted on lacing, dropping gracelessly to her knees.

"Orana, you do not need to do that. I am quite capable of tying my own slippers," she admonished, endeavoring to add a reassuring smile, but the young elven maid bobbed meekly and scurried out, her smile falling from her face with prodigious speed.

Grace was not sure she would ever master the right tone for a maid and was left to speculate on the length of time it would take her mother to procure a lady's maid for each of them. And it was with that dismal thought in mind that Grace finally made her way downstairs to her doom.

"Good evening, Bran," her mother greeted in a thoroughly provoking and effusive manner. "Dear, our guests have arrived! Do come and greet them."

"Good evening," Bran intoned, every letter encased in a block of ice as he looked down his aristocratic nose at Grace, the crotchety old codger.

She gritted her teeth, determined to match his tone. Ignoring her mother's excessive enthusiasm, Grace drawled in an unaffected manner, "Good evening, Seneschal Bran. I'm surprised you were able to tear yourself away from – "

"Orana, dear, fetch my wrap if you would? It's terribly cold in here," her mother cut in quickly, giving the daintiest of shivers.

The maid nodded, bobbed and nodded again before bowing out of the room. Refusing to rise to her mother's obvious bait, she turned to the viscount and bestowed upon him her most charming smile. "Good evening, Viscount Dumar. You look well," she greeted graciously with a flourishing curtsy.

Returning her smile with a mischievous one of his own, the viscount waved her to her feet, admonishing, "Just Marlowe while we're in such informal surroundings, eh?"

"That is most kind of you, and I shall accede, but only if you'll call me by my given name."

The polite greetings over with, the four found themselves in the green salon, as her mother called it, although for the life of her, Grace could not fathom why. The furniture was covered in white and yellow striped damask, the drapes were deep golden wheat in color and the rugs were done in intricate burgundy, gold and blue patterns. There wasn't even any green in the art that adorned the walls, nor the bric-a-brac that graced the mantelpiece and tables. In fact, Grace found every other color imaginable _except_ green and she supposed it was her mother's own capricious contrariness that had caused her to name it thus.

"Shall we have a glass of wine before we begin? There is also some wonderful port from the Anderfels, Marlowe. You were always partial to it," her mother said with a smile coy enough to make Grace's gag reflex jump to life. Not that she thought it an ill-favored notion that her mother and Marlowe seemed to have developed a _tendre_ for each other, but the overt nature of her mother's remarks was a bit unseemly.

Grace's mind blinked at such a thought. She was in mortal danger of sounding as condemning and high in the instep as the seneschal! With that mortifying thought plaguing her, she missed the conversation that flowed around her. It wasn't until the cards had been dealt and she was staring blankly at them that she asked, "What are we playing?"

Bran was seated on her left, and she heard a derisive little snort that made her want to kick him in the shins but she knew that her black kid shoes would provide little protection for her poor toes should she do such a thing. She chose instead to ignore his ill-mannered dig at her.

Marlowe, on her right, his voice teasing and kind, answered, "Bid Whist, my dear, and I warn you to be prepared to fall under the prowess of the best Whist players in Kirkwall."

"Such faradiddle, serah! I am quite sure Mother and I shall prove just how wrong your assertion is. Shall we have a friendly wager on the outcome?" she replied, her mind focusing on the cards in front of her.

"A friendly wager, eh? Well, my girl, I will wager a sovereign and a dare that we beat you handily."

"I accept the wager."

Silence settled over the room as the game began in earnest and Grace, her thoughts slipping back to the afternoon, was surprised to hear her mother announce that hearts would be trump. Obviously the woman was attempting to throw the game, no doubt to pander to Marlowe's masculine pride. With gritty determination, Grace didn't roll her eyes.

Instead, laying her cards face up on the table, she shook her head. "I wish you luck, Mother, since you ignored my bid. I haven't a heart – " she broke off as Bran coughed in an odious and vexatious manner and she shot him a withering stare that had been known to make even Fenris shiver in fear.

" – in my hand," she continued, wondering why she hadn't thought to wear her daggers. One would go quite well in the empty cavern where Bran Drummond's heart should be. "If ever there was a person without heart it would surely be – "

"Lord Aubrey," her mother interposed with a bright, if suspect, smile, "is certainly a likeable young man."

"Yes, a shame his purse is so pinched. He hasn't two coppers to rub together, spent it all at the gaming tables in Nevarra City."

"Really? I would have guessed he squandered most of it in pursuit of trinkets and floral arrangements for his – ," Bran started to say, his voice disagreeably snide.

"Wonderful family," Grace's mother inserted, her features quite innocent in their presentation, "the Pentaghasts. How brave of them to slay dragons."

"He seems pleasant enough if a bit of a f –" Marlowe agreed, only to be interrupted.

"Foreigner? Yes, I quite agree," her mother interjected, playing both her hand and Grace's with aplomb as Grace sat back to watch the dramatics.

"Unbelievable. How did you manage to make book, Leandra?" Bran asked, frowning. He gathered the cards and shuffled them, glancing at Leandra as he did. Grace's jaw tightened at the condescending note in his voice, immediately annoyed by the tone.

"How did she manage? How very con –" she began, allowing a dash of heat in her voice.

"Considerate of you to ask, Bran," her mother finished with an innocent, if theatrical, look at Bran.

Grace shook her head. "That was not the word I was thinking of, Mother," she remarked dryly. "But if you insist on finishing everyone's sentence for them, perhaps you can finish this: My mother was able to make her bid because she ch –" Grace paused, smiling sweetly at her mother, who smiled in return without a trace of embarrassment.

"Cheated quite blatantly, but as it was not remarked upon at the time, the score stands."

"All that nonsense finishing everyone's sentence was just a pretense to keep us off balance," Bran accused, though without any force. In fact, he looked mildly amused, a smile sitting calmly on his lips.

"You always were a bit of a cardsharp," Marlowe laughed good-naturedly. "I remember the night you won seventeen sovereigns off De Launcet. His father was up in the boughs over that business."

"His father_ lived_ in the boughs, such a high strung man, always upset by the least little thing," her mother remarked with a light laugh.

Grace hardly recognized the woman who'd raised her. The light in her eyes was mirrored by the lilt in her voice and it was the first time in nearly a year that she appeared to be as happy as she sounded. Grace let her gaze wander to Marlowe, who was spending as much time eyeing Leandra Amell-Hawke as he was arranging his cards.

A part of her – the selfish part she rarely acknowledged but knew existed – hated the thought that Malcolm Hawke's place would be taken up by another man. Another part of her – the one that adored her Mother – hoped that Marlowe wasn't as mutton-headed as his seneschal and came up to scratch sooner rather than later. And what had the seneschal to do with anything? She twisted away from an image of the man, tenderly gazing at her as he said –

"It is to be hoped that you will bid your hand sometime this evening," the object of her unwanted thoughts remarked with forced patience, as if speaking to a silly little school miss.

"Four no-trump," she hissed, aiming a murderous glare at him.

Or she hoped it was murderous. For all she knew she was giving him her best impression of a woolgathering, mutton-headed, and altogether flighty, clodpate. And why had she bid so wildly? She glanced at her cards, trying to school her face against the panic that was gathering in her stomach. Truly, if she could pull four tricks total, she'd be over the moon, so why had she injudiciously and spontaneously announced that she'd take a total of ten?

"Challenge," the seneschal replied, coldly disdainful. The gloating old goat!

"Double challenge," she shot back. She thought she might have seen her mother wince, but so subtly that Grace wasn't positive.

"Prepare to lose face, _Serah_ Hawke, and your wager," Bran continued and she was appalled by the amount of triumph he was enjoying at her expense. Impertinent, insolent, impossible man! She would ensure her victory, even if it meant employing every underhanded, sneaky and deceitful method she knew.

Her mother cleared her throat in a delicate and refined manner and quietly laid her cards on the table, face up. "Such an exciting bid, dear. I have every confidence in you; your stratagems are without peer."

"You are, without doubt, your mother's daughter," the viscount agreed, glancing fondly at her mother as he spoke.

Her mother's hand assured, if played carefully, that she would easily take a total of seven tricks, leaving only three that would require some sort of stratagem to obtain. A devious plan came dancing into her thoughts and a smile took hold of her lips.

"Did I mention who I saw at the Blooming Rose?" she asked, glancing at Bran with wide-eyed innocence as she tossed the eight of hearts on the table. Bran's eyes widened as he played the five of hearts. She quickly snapped up the two of hearts from her mother's hand, thus preventing the seneschal from recalling his card once his senses returned. "With a lovely bouquet of flowers, if you can imagine," she added and the viscount played the seven of hearts, though she knew one of them had a higher heart in their hand. She snatched the trick and placed it on her growing pile.

"I am quite certain neither your mother nor the viscount are at all interested in the clientele of the Blooming Rose," Bran said, his voice equal measures of condemnation and conviction. She might have detected a hint of desperation as well. Yes, she was quite sure she had.

"Nonsense, Bran, don't be a spoilsport," Marlowe remonstrated with a sly grin. "What dandy brought flowers to a barque of frailty? If you'll pardon my vulgarity, ladies," he added deferentially.

She was hardly offended by the gentlest term she'd yet heard for a woman of bawdy disposition. Tilting her head and tapping her chin, she pretended to study her cards with great care. "I really shouldn't say. I'm not customarily given to gossip," she added coyly, smiling her most charming smile at the viscount.

A derisive snort made her smile widen until she was sure it would split her face. "I can only say that, with wanton disregard for propriety –" she hesitated, wishing for the first and only time in her life that she could blush on command, for the moment was perfect for such an act. She played her lowest spade and held her breath as Bran, his face a delicious mix of anger, embarrassment and dread, played a higher card, but not high enough. Her arm shot out with the speed of a snake attacking its prey, and her fingers closed around the highest spade in her mother's hand. To her profound and dizzying relief, Marlowe, so intent on the conversation that he wasn't paying the least bit of attention to his cards, tossed out a four of spades. With another display of dazzling speed, Grace scooped up the cards.

"Do go on, Grace. What was this wanton disregard for propriety?" the viscount asked, glancing at Bran, who looked with great expediency at his own cards. To Grace's delight, Marlowe's eyes took on a teasing, knowing glint.

"I would not wish to appear unladylike in relaying the latest tittle-tattle, and must profess that it was quite an extraordinary encounter," she answered, throwing in a delicate shiver for good measure.

"Really, dear? You came in all flushed and didn't bother with a greeting. This encounter must have caused you prodigious distress," her mother interjected, with just the right amount of concern and sympathy in her dulcet tones. Traitorous viper! She was gammoning her own daughter and placing the outcome of the game in peril by doing so.

Grace's smile faltered and she felt several pairs of eyes on her. Grabbing a card and hastily laying it on the table, she hoped to deflect the attention from her to the card game. When she saw what card she'd played, she had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from groaning out loud.

"An interesting, if incomprehensible, choice," her tormenter remarked with enough gloat in his voice to make her long to perform painful acts of violence upon his person. She could easily gouge his eyes out at the moment. Instead, she gave him a carefree smile and shrug, which, to her delight, caused his triumph to abate, at least temporarily, as his expression turned from gloating to wariness.

The next trick was lost as well and it came down to the final trick. She would be thrice cursed by the Maker and his wife if she would concede defeat. She looked down at her card and then at her mother's, quickly determining that both men had higher diamonds to play than she did.

She turned her most irrepressible smile on the viscount and he smiled in return, though he looked a bit puzzled by the attention. Next she turned to her mother and said with a soft sigh, "I was quite put upon when I returned, I do confess. You see, viscount," she continued, sending him a smile that now encompassed embarrassment, as well as a touch of humor, "I was in the midst of repairing my _toilette_ after the most relaxing massage - my muscles having become positively knotted after an encounter with a thief, in which my life was threatened by the brigand's compatriots – when the door was nearly ripped off its hinges and a man entered. Imagine my extreme discomfiture and perturbation when that –" here she paused, effecting a shudder as she laid down her card, lashes brushing against her cheeks before sweeping up to gaze at the viscount, whose face was in danger of being swallowed by his wide-eyed interest.

But it was Bran's mortified groan that was a symphony in her ears, and he tossed his card on the table while looking elsewhere. She quickly snapped up her mother's card and placed it on top of his and then turned her eyes once more on the viscount, wondering if perhaps fluttering her lashes might be over-emoting. She sighed instead and the viscount dropped his card on hers.

Without wasting a single breath, she scooped the cards up, slapped them on her pile of tricks and leapt from the chair. With her hands raised above her head, she allowed herself a small dance; hips wiggling, feet turning her in a small circle and her fists waving triumphant circles in the air above her. Her mother was laughing at Marlowe's bewildered expression.

"I believe her companions call it her dance of gloatiness," her mother explained.

"And I believe we have both been played masterfully. Well done, my dear girl," the viscount complimented.

She allowed herself an additional circle before bowing her head regally. "You are all that is kind and generous, your Grace."

Turning to face her adversary, she saw the gleam in his eyes, quickly extinguished in favor of his usual toplofty sneer. Odious, execrable man, could he not allow himself even a moment's fun? And why did he pull away like some great prickly hedgehog?

Her smile gave way to a scowl and she sat down, feeling oddly chastised and furious in the same breath. Her mother, however, rose and said brightly, "I believe I have another bottle of that port, Marlowe, but I'll need your assistance to reach it."

"Oh, I'm quite – oh, oh yes, I will be most happy to offer my assistance, Leandra."

"I don't suppose they could have been more obvious," Grace muttered, allowing herself the childish pleasure of rolling her eyes.

"She must be quite pleased to see how manipulative and dishonest a card player her daughter is," Bran replied stiffly.

She leaned forward in her chair so that he was better able to see her ferocious glare. "At least I don't glare and sneer at everyone, looking down my nose at the idea of having fun," she retorted, jabbing him in the chest with a finger as she uttered each word and completely overlooking that fact that she was, in fact, glaring at him.

His eyes narrowed and Grace felt her belly dip and twist at the naked desire that had ridden into and out of his gaze in an instant. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she wondered in a panic where all the air in the room had gone because she couldn't seem to breathe. He leaned forward and she felt compelled to do the same until they were almost nose to nose. Her heart was beating with unladylike gusto and she was sure everyone in the square could hear it as it pounded against her chest wall. She had to fight to keep herself from reaching out to let her fingers -

"Serahs Fenris and Varric are here to see you, Lady Grace," Bodahn intoned. "They say it's quite urgent."

Of all the luck…she didn't know whether to laugh or cry; to shout in anger or relief. Mostly, she felt an unwelcome and uncommon disappointment, and that gave her more than a little to think about as she hurried to discover what was so urgent.

"Hadriana," Fenris growled as soon as she entered the drawing room.

"I'll get my daggers."

"Better change too, and grab a pack. We finally tracked her to one of those old holding caves out on the Wounded Coast," Varric added.

Of course. Naturally. Her sigh was a silent hiss in her head. "Well, don't let Orana hear you. Bad enough she's been terrified ever since Hadriana escaped all those months ago," she instructed before heading upstairs to change.

When she came back down the stairs, dressed in her leathers and a pair of daggers, Bran and Marlowe were talking quietly with her friends. Her mother stood next to Marlowe, holding Grace's bulging pack.

Fenris was nodding impatiently at something Bran was saying, as civil as a wounded civet, but Varric was agreeing with that knowing grin that meant mischief and mayhem were not far away.

"I'll be gone at least a day, Mother," she said, taking the pack before hugging her mother.

"Be careful, dear. I know this is important to Fenris, but losing your lives won't accomplish anything."

"Yes, a sentiment I have always kept in mind whilst fighting," Grace agreed, easing the pack onto her shoulders and turning to her friends. "Shall we?"

"Be careful, as your mother says, Grace. Shall I send the city guard out there as well?" the viscount asked, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly.

"Best not. We've been waiting for this encounter for some time and I'll not have Fenris robbed of his revenge by those heavy-handed chowder-brained – er, no, we'll get along quite well on our own," she amended quietly, surprising everyone with her serious response. She was still too weighed down with confusing feelings to be chipper and cheerful.

She was nearly at the front door when Bran's words came to her. "If she cheats death using the same skills she cheats at card with there is no cause for concern, Leandra."

She found herself chuckling as they made their way out into the cool night air.


	10. Against the Grain

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa! Your beta goodness is always appreciated! _  
_Thank you to all those reading, and especially those who are reviewing. I appreciate it very much!  
Zute, if you're still reading you'll recognize Grace's last spoken line. :)_

**Against the Grain**

Bran refused to pace his office. He refused to allow his concern to manifest in any form, preferring to occupy his mind with the business of governance. He examined the list of criminals who stood in gaol awaiting sentencing. He amended his original budget to include ten new guardsmen and made a mental note to seek out the guard captain to express Viscount Dumar's dissatisfaction with the number of criminals still running amok in the streets.

He read through a detailed account of a Mother Petrice, who appeared to be organizing an anti-Qunari group. The person responsible for the report wrote with a familiar flamboyance of language, but apparently did so with the quill between her toes, judging from the scrawling, haphazard formation of letters. He leafed to the last page and dropped the papers on his desk in favor of removing his pince-nez and massaging his temples. Questions and thoughts collided in his head, creating a dull ache at the base of his skull and a sharper pain in his temples.

She had been gone for over two days. Surely she and her cohorts should have returned by now? What was she thinking, traipsing off into the night with only a dwarf and an elf as companions? How painfully would she kill him if he sent a squad of men out in search of her? Who had taught her to write? A drunken sailor during a storm at sea?

"Ah, Bran, there you are," the viscount greeted, strolling into the office with a sheaf of papers in his hand and an absentminded smile on his face.

"Yes, here I am. In my office. Where I have been every day for the past twelve years. Astonishing, is it not?"

The viscount glanced at his papers and then at Bran. "Saemus wasn't overstating your mood when he claimed you were cantankerous and snappish. This wouldn't have anything to do with young Grace, would it?"

With great care Bran stood and straightened his doublet, smoothing unseen creases with exacting precision. "This would have to do with the stranglehold the templars have on this city."

"Ah. Has this changed in any manner since Threnhold's death? Have the templars suddenly become impossible to deal with?"

"Mock me if you must, Marlowe, but do not cry foul when they overwrite every good or honorable achievement you have managed to accomplish. And they will, make no mistake about it.

"Have you heard of Mother Petrice? If so, are you aware that she is stirring up anti-Qunari sentiment? And lest you think it was our own city guard who brought this matter to my attention, let me assure you it was not. Gr – Serah Hawke wrote a report on her findings and suspicions. I find it incomprehensible that we pay our guards to keep this city safe. We would be better served to hire Grace and her companions. Think of the budgetary gains!"

Bran wondered if the viscount would take notice of his seneschal's informality in using Grace's given name. He also briefly debated the merits of an apology to the viscount for the invective nature of his words, but withheld it as his friend turned sharp blue eyes on him.

"Then we must defuse the situation as quickly as possible. Send a runner to Grand Cleric Elthina with a request for a meeting. After hours," the viscount added. "What? You don't honestly think your tirade fell on deaf ears, do you?"

"Of course not, Viscount Dumar. You are a leader without peer," Bran replied, any irony in his tone the product of relief for Marlowe's decisive manner. Said relief had nothing to do with Marlowe not mentioning anything further about Grace Hawke.

"Now, let us discuss the city guard. When we hired Aveline Vallen I expected there to be an adjustment period. Is that the issue? Or is she incompetent?" the viscount continued.

Bran waved the viscount to a chair as he sat down behind his desk. "I suspect that there are agents who wish to see the city guard fail with the intent of replacing their ranks with the templars. That will not happen as long as I am the seneschal, but Captain Vallen must deracinate the provocateurs promptly and decisively."

"Hmmm, she'll also need to get rid of the troublemakers quickly and resolutely."

Bran eyed his friend, an unwilling smile threatening his stern expression. "I believe that's what I said."

"Yes, but which of us will she understand?"

"She may understand your words more easily, your Grace, but she will understand my intent more readily."

"True. I leave such a task in your capable hands. The woman looks as though she could turn me into a pile of broken bones without raising a sweat. Have you seen her arms? She reminds me of that strongman we saw when the circus came to Kirkwall all those years ago. I can't help but feel a certain apprehension at the thought of ringing a peal over her."

Bran's smile broke through, but was quickly extinguished by a sharp rap on his door. "Enter!"

A soldier, still panting, his helmet in hand and face awash in perspiration, gave a brief nod. "The party returned to the city approximately ten minutes ago."

Bran heard the viscount's snicker but chose to ignore it. "Thank you. Was there anything untoward in their appearance?"

The soldier scratched his head. "None's I noticed, Seneschal Bran. Except Grace – er, Serah Hawke. She was walking funny."

Bran frowned. "In what manner was she walking funny? Do you mean humorously or curiously?" He ignored the erratic tattoo of his heart and refused to acknowledge his concern.

"Well, I can't say for sure. But she appeared to be favoring one leg over the other, sorta like my mum on account of her bad hip."

"Thank you; that will be all."

The guardsman saluted and eased out of the office, shutting the door quietly. "I'm sure your concern for Grace's health has everything to do with her assistance to the fair city of Kirkwall and nothing at all to do with your feelings for the woman."

Bran's brow quirked. "As you have so ably reminded me on many occasions, Your Grace, I am sans heart and therefore sans feelings."

Marlowe laughed. "And I stand by my words. As my financial officer you are without heart or feeling, as it should be. However, as a man you obviously have heart and feeling, especially for our friend's daughter."

"You mistake the matter greatly, Marlowe. You have no friends," Bran replied, dropping his brow in favor of a brief, smug smile.

"There was a reason I was more popular with the ladies than you were!"

"Yes, I believe that had to do with the amount of sovereigns in your pocket and absolutely nothing to do with the size of your – "

The preemptory knock was answered by a relieved Marlowe Dumar, who used the excuse to exit with alacrity, if not grace.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Are you quite sure you're up to this, dear? We can visit the market tomorrow as easily as we might today, and I've – "

"I am positively, absolutely, unquestionably, undeniably certain I wish to perambulate through the market, Mother. Please do not fidget, fuss or fret over me."

Grace ignored the deep ache in her hip where an arrow, demonstrating great temerity, had landed with unerring precision. She'd been a blundering bungler in marching out to the Wounded Coast with neither healer nor health potions and, rightly or wrongly, she blamed the seneschal for upsetting the perfect order of her brain which was rapidly disintegrating into a frighteningly whimsical and flighty creature.

"Don't look now, Grace, but I believe that rather handsome gentleman, the one with the distinguished grey hair, has his eyes on you."

Naturally Grace ignored her mother's advisement, turning her head and staring at the tall man dressed in the robes of a scholar, a pretension Grace found both annoying and amusing. His eyes widened and he looked away in a completely _furtive_ manner, which made Grace long for her daggers and a menacing scowl. Instead, she affixed a bored expression on her face and turned away with what she hoped was haughty disregard.

"He's old enough to be _your_ father, Mother, and is not in the least attractive, comely, handsome or otherwise pleasing to the eye. I really believe you are in need of a set of those spectacles Seneschal Bran pretends he has no use for. And that antiquated old fossil appears to be fixated on you, dear Mama, if I am not mistaken."

"I most certainly do not need a pince-nez, Grace Hawke! I am inconsolable that you could so heedlessly wound my heart in such a manner. You demonstrate an utter disregard for my person. I am hurt beyond measure."

"Mother, that wound is not to your heart but to your ego and truly, had I made so dubious a statement with regard to Serah Long-in-the-Tooth, I would hope you had the strength and _resolutement_ to offer the same clear-sighted advice."

A titter, hastily resolved into a genteel cough, was followed by a chastisement. "Grace Hawke, _resolutement_ isn't even a word!"

"Such a pedantic and vain woman, Mother," Grace chided with a smile, unwilling to upset the woman beside her. She withheld the information that the man appeared to be following them as they made their way along the square. He also seemed to be listening to their discussion, which dropped him even lower in her estimation, which was critically low to begin with.

"I need to step into the milliner's shop, dear. I want to add a bit of ribbon to my latest bonnet."

"I will be at the bookseller across the way as I've no desire to be inundated with a veritable profusion of frills and furbelows," Grace replied, unable to dissuade a shudder from chasing along her spine as images of the Pink Monstrosity rose in her mind.

As soon as her mother entered Millicent's Millinery Marvels, Grace made her way across the street to the bookstore. To her dismay the elderly gentleman followed her. Surely he couldn't be interested in her? She was young enough to be his granddaughter.

She entered the small shop and smiled at the man behind the counter, who doffed an imaginary cap and smiled in reply, his face the texture of old Antivan leather.

"Good day, Lady Grace, it's kind of you to patronize my establishment."

"Good day, Master Dickens," she replied warmly, moving to a tempting stack of books on a nearby table. The latest Orlesian romance novel beckoned, a literary diversion her mother would find fault in but eventually borrow and read in the privacy of her bedchamber.

The door opened again and she continued to fix her gaze on the book titles, pretending ignorance of the doddering old codger's sudden presence in the small shop.

"Messere Quentin, that book you ordered has arrived. I'll just fetch it, shall I?" the proprietor asked, his voice as chipper as a spring morn. Odious toady! But since he was as unctuous with her, she could hardly fault him. Truth be told, she did like his sunny attitude, as he was not at all like his brother, Charles, who was mordant and morose in the extreme.

"Thank you, Dickens."

Alone in the shop with the mysterious malingerer, who seemed completely content to study her from beneath shaggy grey brows, Grace found it impossible to concentrate on the book she held in her hand. She'd be thrice cursed by the Maker if she would initiate a conversation with the man. And was his interest in her or her mother? Of course he couldn't go into a milliner's shop, his only avenue was to enter the bookstore if he was to continue his reconnoitering. She bit back a smile as she decided to test her theory on where the Ancient One's attentions were affixed.

When Dickens returned with a bound package, she spoke up, her voice all that was sweet and innocent. "Dear Master Dickens, have you a book on growing lilies? My mother has taken a notion into her head to grow her _favorite_ flower and, while I am uncertain that this is the correct climate for such an experiment, I cannot deny her."

The bookseller stared at her, eyes as wide as saucers, no doubt surprised by her sudden interest in horticulture. "A book on lilies, you say? I'm not sure. Which type of lilies do you mean?"

She cast upon the man another sweet smile, believing she should be on the grand stages in Orlais, so nimbly did she play a part. "Oh, you know, those lovely white ones with the long stems." With nary a pause, she turned her bright smile on the object of her efforts. "I prefer anemones, but Mother believes they are little more than weeds," she continued, babbling on like the veriest brook and grinning internally at her superb performance.

"Indeed? I have always found –" Quentin began and she felt her smile slipping at his portentous, pretentious tones. Old and pretentious, how marvelous.

"Oh, pardon me! Mother is beckoning! I'll be back later, Master Dickens!" With that, she hurried out of the shop and into the brilliant sunshine, wondering if it would be unseemly for her to grab her mother's arm and propel her back to the estate with all due speed.

"Dear, what is it?"

Unwilling to alarm her mother with as yet unfounded fears over a stranger, Grace smiled and admitted to a certain weariness from her recent journey to the Wounded Coast, forcing her steps to slow. In truth, she was tired and her wound seemed to be reluctant to heal.

"Then let us away, dear child, and have tea and scones in the garden."

Grace looked back only once, under the guise of adjusting her collar, and found that Messere Quentin was following at a leisurely pace. She absolutely refused to entertain the shiver that wanted to dance down her spine.

As they sat in the garden sipping tea a short time later, she realized she had gone several hours with nary a thought of Bran Drummond mucking about in her mind. As if to punish her for her ebullience in the matter, he came to settle in her thoughts with unseemly persistence, much to her displeasure.

"What a sweet smile you wear, darling daughter. Will you share the object of such happy thoughts?"

Happy thoughts? Sweet smile? She slapped her tea cup onto its saucer with enough force to send the tepid liquid in every direction. "I am most certainly not entertaining happy thoughts," she growled.

"No, of course not, dear. It must have been the waning light."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I have it on good authority that she received an arrow in her left hip. She limped all the way back from the coast and went to see that healer friend of hers. What's his name? Anton? Adams? Ansel? Anyway, she's still favoring it, so I wouldn't expect her here for her dance lesson today," Saemus said, slouching in a chair across from Bran.

"The healer's name is Anders," Bran said, quite pleased with his detached tone. He had spoken to Aveline the previous evening and knew precisely what had occurred, due in large part to her predilection for apricot brandy.

"Right, that's the one. Anyway, if we aren't going to have a dance lesson, do you mind if I skip out?"

A fissure of alarm broke through Bran's detachment. The last time Saemus had used that tone, he'd been found with a dead Qunari on the Wounded Coast. "Skip out? To do what, precisely?"

"You're beginning to sound a lot like my father," the young man accused, his smile hidden behind a growing frown.

"If you wish to escape from lessons today, insulting the instructor is hardly the manner in which to do it."

"Fine. Some friends and I want to go see Sally Mae's new act at the Blooming Rose."

"Codswallop! Sally Mae has no new act and, in fact, is no longer employed by Madame Lusine. I'm deeply disappointed, Saemus. All these years in the halls of government and you cannot come up with a better tale than that?"

Saemus's frown gradually disappeared, replaced by an embarrassed shrug and self-effacing grin. "Politics is obviously not in my future," he agreed. "The truth is I feel like an extra button when I'm with the two of you. You know, a button without a buttonhole, like those extra ones Madame Debary sews into the shirts she makes?"

"A spare button? Truly, Saemus, you are more than a spare button, I assure you. I suspect that were you not with us, Serah Hawke would have slain me many times over."

"You do seem to enjoy upsetting her."

"It is never my intention to disaccommodate the woman, but she seems ever prone to misinterpret anything I say or do, searching for the least hint of a possible affront to her very graceful personage."

"What a bouncer!" the young man exclaimed, laughing outright. "Father and I have a bet as to –" here Saemus stopped, a stricken expression wiping away the laughter. "Never mind that. I'll swallow my own tongue before I say another word."

"I hear tongue is quite a delicacy in certain countries, although I am not partial to it in the least," a familiar voice remarked. Bran felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he was falling, and attributed it to the warmth in his office.

"Grace! How's the wound? Was it really from a magical bow wielded by a magister?" Saemus asked.

"What wound?" she replied, opening her eyes wide and smiling with uncommon and uncustomary innocence.

Bran eyed her warily, completed unaffected by the obvious affectation of her smile. "Speaking of bouncers," he muttered, half to himself, moving back to his desk and settling behind it.

"Why, Bran Drummond! Did you just accuse me of being a prevaricator?"

"Serah Hawke, not only are you a prevaricator, but also an _agent provocateur_."

"I'll just head off now, great seeing you, Grace!"

"How hen-hearted of you!" Grace teased, linking arms with the young man and flashing a grin up at him.

"If I've learned nothing else from roaming these halls, it's how to beat a hasty retreat," Saemus retorted and, with a final grin, he disengaged himself from the woman, opened the door and was gone.

An unusual silence fell after his departure. Grace turned to offer Bran a raised brow. "I assume with Serah Scaredy Cat gone there will be no dance practice this day. What have you in mind then, oh great taskmaster?"

It was apparent that she was in a strangely unsettled mood and he felt discomposed by her disconcertion. He realized that she was, indeed, favoring her left hip and that her eyes glittered too brightly.

"You should not be here," he said quietly, standing up and stepping around his desk to walk the few steps to her. "You are unwell."

"Don't be missish, Seneschal Bran. And," she added with a light laugh, "don't pull a face at me. If I wanted to be scowled at, I would visit the Arishok. That man is a master scowler. Yours is rather weak by comparison, although I applaud your attempt."

"You appear feverish."

"Nonsense. It's a warm day and your office is stuffy which is hardly surprising considering you are of equal stuffiness."

His concern grew and he reached out to her only to have her slap his hand away. "Do not fuss like an old – old fussbudget," she hissed.

"Sit down, Grace, before you fall down. You should have sent a note round that you were not feeling up to crack."

"I am feeling up to crack. In fact, I have never felt more up to crack," she argued, taking a step away from him.

"Sit down!" he commanded, moving to his door. "Hudgens, get the viscount's healer here immediately."

"You are, as I mentioned some time ago, very high in the instep."

"Yes, I believe we've established that. And you are irresponsible and absurd, in need of a sound –"

"Kissing?"

"Thrashing," he replied in the same instant, turning away before he performed the former and not the latter. She was obviously not of right mind and he would not take advantage of her. He sighed. Even he didn't believe such faradiddle.

The healer, an older woman with a glass-eye and a bellicose nature, entered. "Well, what have you called me for? A paper cut? Back injury from kow-towing to the nobles? Speak up, man!"

"See to Serah Hawke," he commanded quietly and left the room, unsure how far he would have to pace to work out the knots of worry in his stomach.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Grace slapped at the old woman's hands. "I have seen a healer and he assures me the wound is healing nicely."

"What? That young pup, Anders? Don't look so surprised, of course I know him. He's not exactly keeping low, is he? Now, I'm sure he's fine, dearie, but I've been healing since before he was born. So, show me this wound of yours like a good girl before I put you to sleep and do it the hard way."

Feeling certain she knew who had taught Bran his charming manners, Grace was unwilling to argue. She allowed the mage to poke none too gently, and prod with the same gentility, until she finally stepped back, glaring. "Poke me once more and I assure you, your poker will be little more than a stump."

"Well, listen to you, all high and mighty. You've a fever because you've an infection, dearie. Now, stand still while I work my magic on it."

Every instinct in Grace rebelled. She had suffered many indignities in her young life but bent over the seneschal's desk with her skirts hiked up, leaving her feeling entirely too exposed, was among the most egregious. She blamed, however unfairly, the seneschal for her current predicament and tried to focus on the various ways she might retaliate.

An unkind and injudicious thought came to mind that she doubted the old crone capable of healing more than a hangnail but that thought was lost to a most unladylike screech when the healer decided to use a machete to excise her wound.

"As I thought!" the old mage crowed, waving a bloody bit of fletching about like a madwoman.

"You cantankerous, crotchety old cr ..." A wave of magic flowed over Grace, stilling her diatribe mid-word. "Oh."

"Now, I'm going to put a poultice on your hip. You're to sit down in that chair and let it do its job. In other words, dearie, sit down and shut up for the next hour. You can do that much, right?"

"You quarrelsome hag I can – ouch! Yes, fine. Sitting. Quietly," Grace hissed, glaring her most murderous glower at the completely unconcerned old harridan, who proceeded to ignore her in favor of cackling on her way out the door.

The seneschal entered a moment later, his expression a perfect imitation of a thundercloud.

"If you are here to tell me I've cut yet another caper, I appeal to any sense of decency you might harbor within you and beg you not to," she said and then sighed. "I'm sorry. Thank you for your timely intervention," she added with such quiet dignity and forbearance that they were both stunned into a momentary and incomprehensibly companionable silence.

Unable to look away, she allowed her gaze to settle on his full lips, wondering what a lingering kiss would feel like. Not a brief angry buss, but a long, sensuous kiss that started slowly and softly, with tongues -

"Dancing seems to be out of the question. I propose a geopolitical lesson for today. Tell me what you know of Rivain," Bran said in such a brisk and impersonal manner that she found herself blurting out her answer without thinking, the image of them kissing dissolving under the bright glare of reality.

"They grow grain."

"I beg your pardon?"

"In Rivain," she added with an internal groan of mortification. What had befuddled her to such an extent she was incapable of coherency? The ignominy of her baffling behavior was enough to make her writhe internally.

"Do I understand you correctly? They grow grain in Rivain. Is that the extent of your knowledge?"

"The grain in Rivain grows mainly on the plain," she added helpfully.

What had come over her? She was a complete dolt, a nodcock, a nattering ninnyhammer. What had that old crone done to her to make her turn into an utter addlepate?

To her chagrin and continued discomfiture, laughter bubbled up and spilled from her. A moment later, Bran's rare, rich laughter joined hers.


	11. Larceny and Old Lace

**A/N: **_Lisa, thank you for your help and fortitude in staying up so late to beta this. You are amazing and I'm a lucky lady to have you as my beta and friend. _

**Larceny and Old Lace**

"_The Complete Compendium of the Sociopolitical Ramifications of the Establishment of Trade Affiliations with Rivain_," she read aloud before permitting herself a heartfelt, if melodramatic, sigh. "This is the seneschal's answer to my bungling regurgitation of the entirety of my Rivaini knowledge? Merciful Maker, please curse me thrice."

Reaching across the table, she plucked up a piece of dry toast and swathed it in her serviette, aware of her mother's teasing smile the entire time and wishing with a whole and true heart that she hadn't seen it. Handing the carefully wrapped package to the young courier, who was pulling on his forelock and shuffling nervously, she smiled, inordinately pleased with herself.

"Please ensure Seneschal Bran receives this and tell him it is my response to his most generous gift."

"Milady?" he asked, his timid smile giving way to a frown that embodied both confusion and apprehension.

"And help yourself to a scone on your way out, young man," her mother added, her smile turning particularly kind as she bestowed it on the messenger and offered up the plate of scones. "In fact, I insist that you take two as you are looking particularly hungry this morning."

The young man, who couldn't possibly have seen sixteen winters, eagerly grabbed the two largest scones and bobbed his way out of the room.

"I believe I shall have a word with the viscount about the parsimonious pay of his domestics and their ilk. Did you notice the worn boots on that poor boy's feet? Patched and patched again, with little hope of lasting another fortnight."

"Perhaps if he spent less money on these weighty tomes his seneschal insists on sharing with me, he could afford to purchase boots for the entirety of the keep's staff and possibly his personal staff as well," Grace remarked. "And in furtherance of such a plan, he could put the tomes to good use as training dummies or perhaps as weights for those soldiers - and seneschals – who are woefully inadequate in their physique."

"My dear, the seneschal is a fine specimen of both brain and brawn. In his day he was an accomplished swordsman and quite dashing."

"And what seneschal would that be?"

"Grace Hawke, such a plumper! You blush a most dignified shade of pink when his name is mentioned."

"Mother! My grandmother, the exalted Lady Amell, would be appalled at your usage of _sporting_ cant, to say nothing of accusing her beloved granddaughter of lying."

"Change the direction of the conversation if you like, dear, but know that I know."

"And know that I know that you _don't_ know anything of the kind. You only believe yourself to be correct in this matter," Grace refuted with an elegant tilt of her chin.

"Pardon, your ladyships, but Serah Varric and Prince Vael are here to speak with Mistress Grace," Orana said, bowing low enough that Grace thought her nose brushed the floor. No matter how many times she entreated the young woman not to bow, her pleas fell on deaf ears, which laid waste to the common misconception that elves, because of their long ears, had especially acute hearing.

"Show them into the morning room, please, and have tea sent in. Better add a few pear tarts for the prince. He does love his tarts."

Her mother's gentle laughter followed her. She entered the morning room still attired in her grin, which she shared with the two men. "Awfully early for you to be up and about, Varric. This must be very important," she commented, waving them into chairs that were grouped around a tea table.

Sebastian was dressed in his white armor, his bow attached to his back like a limpet. He appeared unusually somber and Grace felt a murmur of unease tickle at her. "I suppose whatever has brought you here will involve my donning armor and daggers?"

"Morning, Hawke. Doesn't it usually?"

Once they were seated and the tea poured, tarts passed around and everyone comfortable, she turned her gaze to Sebastian.

"The Harimanns!" Sebastian announced with great aplomb once they were served.

"As opposed to the hirsute womans?" Grace asked, causing an explosion of tea from Varric.

She ducked adroitly and handed him her neatly folded serviette. A lady did not allow herself to be spilled upon, spit upon or sullied in any manner, according to the collected works of Emily, Amy and Judith, the Etiquette Triumvirate, as they were known throughout the Free Marches, none of whom had procured a husband, despite their attention to decorum and manners. Or perhaps because of it, Grace thought, refilling Varric's tea.

"No, Grace, you don't understand. The Harimanns are responsible for my family's murder. I need to know why. They were my parents' most trusted friends."

He was so sincerely distressed that Grace leaned forward and patted his cheek in an attempt to comfort him and apologize for her flippancy, wondering if she could coax him into saying 'murder' again because she'd never heard anyone roll an 'r' as well as he did. Instead, she asked, "How did you come by the information? Is it reliable?"

"It's reliable, Hawke. You think I'd be here if it wasn't? Some of us work for a living."

"Stuff and nonsense, Varric. You work because you enjoy it. You brought home as much wealth from the expedition as I did."

"The Harimanns," Sebastian reminded her, his voice no more than a gentle rebuke.

"You desire my company when you confront them? I am delighted to oblige," Grace replied gratefully, contemplating the ponderous publication awaiting her perusal and gleefully renouncing it in favor of murrrrderrr and mayhem.

She left the men with their tarts in hand and went to change into her armor. Weaving her hair into a plump and slightly askew braid, she then grabbed her sheathed weapons and returned to the men who were arguing over the meaning of the painting above the mantelpiece.

"I'm quite certain it is Andraste's impeachment of the magisters," Sebastian intoned.

"No, no, it's Dame Sarah Siddons re-enacting Celene's takeover of the Orlesian throne," Varric argued as he squinted up at the painting, tilting his head to the left and then the right.

Sebastian, frowning, followed suit. "No, Varric, it's clearly Andraste. See that group standing behind her…they are shorter than her and they can only be the elves. Brilliant brushstrokes, and the colors are quite extraordinary."

Varric nodded sagely, before remarking, "I agree with the brushstrokes, Choir Boy, and the colors, but not the subject matter."

An unintentional snicker escaped her. "If only Bethany were here, how she would giggle and preen. You are looking at the great Hawke Battle of Dragon Age 9:26. The figure you are convinced is either Celene or Andraste is actually Madame la Scarecrow, built by no less than Ser Carver and myself in the hope of dispelling the evil crows and other devourers of our crops. The 'slaves' are actually stalks of corn and the colors are quite normal for the subject matter, I assure you."

A lengthy silence followed her explanation as each man contemplated the painting in a new light, or so Grace assumed as they both stepped back and once again tilted their heads in several different directions before looking sheepishly at each other.

"Well, sure, I see that_ now_. How old was Sunshine when she painted this masterpiece?" Varric asked and she could almost see him wince in anticipation of her usual explosion at mention of her sister, but as she had brought the matter up, she was certainly not so ham-fisted as to call him to account for mentioning her as well.

"Twelve, as I recall. She was always so much more the proper, elegant lady. My sketching is abysmal, as is my singing, unless we are discussing my mimicking others, and musical instruments shudder and run when I approach them. Luckily, I am great at killing things. Shall we?"

The walk to the Harimann estate was made more quickly by taking the narrow alleyways that ran behind the estates in Hightown. After their third attempt at gaining entrance through the use of the doorknocker, Grace wrapped her hand around the door's ornate handle and gave it a twist. The door opened silently, which made the hair at her nape stand up.

"In for a copper, in for a sovereign," Varric remarked with a shrug. She pushed the door wider and they entered, listening intently for any signs of life.

"Does anyone else hear that?" Grace asked, referring to the constant drone of a high-pitched voice giving a very colorful set-down to some unseen miscreant.

"From the kitchens," Varric whispered and started forward. "And does anyone wish we'd brought Broody and his heavy armor along for the jaunt?"

"Craven dwarf, get behind me and I'll protect you," Grace snickered.

They encountered the first Harimann in the kitchens, standing before a vat of wine, cursing at it for not filling her glass more quickly. While odd to see a vat in a kitchen and not a cellar, it was even more unusual to see a noble woman in the room; a cursing harridan of a Harimann who Sebastian explained was Flora Harimann, the serious eldest child of the noble family. She was also completely oblivious and they backed out of the room.

"Broody is looking better and better," Varric muttered as they followed the sounds of a different voice, this one entreating the unseen masses to invest coin in a boiling pot of molten gold. He was convinced that the young elven servant would make a beautiful gold-plated statue.

"I don't understand, Hawke. Why are they behaving in so unseemly a manner?"

"Unseemly? Sebbie, these people passed unseemly and went straight to insane. It's almost as if they're possessed," Grace said, tempted to give him a wink and a nudge.

Before she could give him a broader hint, he stepped forward, trying to stop the man with the golden eyes from creating a new statue by sending him flying with a punch any man would be proud of. The young elven woman turned and ran with great haste.

"Well done, Prince Vael," she complimented as they continued on.

"You believe the Harimanns are ensorcelled, Hawke?"

"Either that or they have all been drinking from the Lunacy Well," she agreed, setting off in the direction of another voice.

They entered the room to the melodic notes of "Felicitate me!" as spoken by a handsome young man who wore a look of ecstasy as yet another young elven woman knelt before him, in preparation of doing just that.

"I've known Ruxton Harimann my whole life. He's always been a complete prude!" Sebastian exclaimed, jumping to stand in front of Grace, no doubt with the noble intention of saving her eyes from such depravity. Grace craned her neck to see past his broad shoulder and armor.

"If Ruxton is a prude, I want to meet the rest of his family," Varric commented with a whistle of appreciation.

"Prude? Please feel free to demonstrate your definition of debauchery, dear friend," Grace said simultaneously, her voice far more suggestive than she'd intended. Sebastian threw his hands in the air before turning on his heel and scurrying out of the room.

"I think he was blushing," she commented to Varric.

"Chances are he'll be blushing again tonight when we tell the others about this visit."

Of course there was a demon, a possessed mother and a number of evil spirits and shades to fight through before they were finally able to free the Harimann children. Grace wasn't entirely sure Ruxton the Prude was happy about being saved, but the servants wanted to throw a party for their rescuers.

"Now, I'd best return to my mother before she sends the guards in search of me."

"More than likely the seneschal will beat her to it," Varric chuckled.

"I can't imagine he would do anything of the sort."

"Please, Hawke, save it for someone who'll actually buy it, would you? The man sends guards after you every time we go out on one of these little quests of yours. Or have you failed to notice the number of them trailing after us constantly?"

She paused and looked at Sebastian, who was trudging along beside them, disillusioned and doleful over the Harriman encounter. Rousing himself out of his doldrums, he nodded. "Four following us at the moment," he agreed.

"Of all the ham-fisted, bacon-brained schemes! Has he gone completely round the bend to do something so…so…"

"Ham-fisted and bacon-brained?" Varric supplied with a snicker.

She was prepared to launch into a lengthy lecture when she discovered she was home and without further ado, took herself to her room to clean the gore and blood off before she received a scolding from her mother, leaving the men to find their way to their own homes with a promise to meet them for drinks at the Hanged Man after supper.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Lord Aubrey Pentaghast wishes to know if you are at home," Orana announced a short time later.

Grace, having changed into a sensible plain gown of medium blue, and having arranged her hair in a tidy chignon at the nape of her neck, graciously nodded. "Show him in, Orana, and fetch my mother, if you would. Maker forefend I meet with a man without the appropriate chaperone in tow."

"Oh, Mistress, she isn't here! She went to the market. She said she needed to replace a bit of old lace on one of her gowns."

Grace felt a flurry of butterflies flutter in her stomach. "Alone?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Tell Lord Aubrey I am on my way out and he is most welcome to accompany me," Grace said, the foreboding now adding another wave of fluttering butterflies to her stomach. She turned to leave and it was then that her gaze landed on a vase of white lilies, the sight of which agitated the butterflies and added a few more. She hurried out of the room.

"It is prodigiously kind of you to accept my company, Lady Grace," Aubrey said as they strode along the the sidewalks of the marketplace.

"Yes," Grace replied, distracted by her need to find her mother.

"That is a lovely shade of blue, if you will permit me to pay such a forward compliment."

"Yes," she said again, wondering if she could get away with shoving the doddering old woman who was walking with all the haste of a turtle whilst blocking Grace's forward progression.

"I believe the gown matches your eyes splendidly. Such captivating eyes, my dear Grace. If you will allow me that small liberty."

"Yes," Grace said, struggling to go around the woman who seemed to have slowed even more.

He continued talking but she didn't hear anything he said, occasionally nodding in agreement as her eyes scanned the crowds. Ah! There she was! Relief skipped into her blood.

Gripping Lord Aubrey's velvet and satin clad arm, she yanked him across the cobblestones to her mother, who was talking to a grey-haired man wearing scholar's robes with patently false amiability, at least it seemed so to Grace. Her heart flew out of her chest and then back in again, banging noisily into her ribs upon its return.

"Oh, my darling daughter, there you are. Ser Aubrey, how pleasant to see you as well," her mother enthused. Grace stared, slack-jawed, before snapping her mouth shut against the torrent of words that pushed at her tongue.

"My dear, this is Messere Quentin. Messere Quentin, my daughter Grace and her friend Lord Aubrey Pentaghast." There was a hint of a plea in her mother's words and it was all Grace could do to keep from snatching the woman and beating the old man over the head with a walking stick. Not that she actually had a walking stick with her.

"A pleasure, my dear girl," the man said, his voice a dry whisper of old paper.

That clodpoll was entirely too familiar in his address as he swept a half-bow before turning his attention back to her mother. Grace's dislike of him only grew as she noticed the way he neatly positioned himself with his back to her. It was a fatal mistake in her eyes.

Without hesitation Grace discreetly reached into her pocket and extracted her coin pouch. She leaned forward with an infectious laugh, murmuring how wonderfully droll the old geezer was as she inserted the coin pouch into the odious man's pocket before stepping back. She mentally counted to one hundred and then gave a startled exclamation.

"Upon my word! My coin pouch has gone missing!" she cried in distress, clutching wildly at Aubrey's arm.

"Are you sure, my lady?"

She glared at the man, momentarily forgetting her role of helpless female before carefully arranging her expression into one of sorrow and outrage. "Of course I'm sure. Oh, who could do such a wicked, vile thing?" she lamented as a crowd grew around them. A pair of city guards pushed their way through.

"What's all the – Grace?"

"Melfor, so good to see you, and a most fortuitous arrival! Someone has nick – absconded with my coin purse."

The young guardsman's eyes narrowed. "We've had a number of reports of cutpurses and pickpockets working the Hightown markets. Any idea who took it? Or when?"

She frowned, tapping her chin thoughtfully, trying not to over-emote, but finding it a challenge. "I had it when we crossed the street to meet up with – oh but it couldn't – let me think – yes, I'm quite sure – oh this is awful..." she dithered, instilling embarrassment into her voice, and trying to look the part of a distressed young maiden. She admonished herself not to bat her lashes or affect tears, hoping she'd dropped enough clues for Melfor to seize upon even one of them.

"Are you saying it was one of these two gentlemen?" the guard asked, his voice registering shock and perhaps a bit of glee.

"Do not dare to include me in your suspicions. I am from one of the noblest houses in all of Thedas," Aubrey claimed portentously.

"Sorry, serah, but you'll have to empty your pockets. Same for you, serah," Melfor added, indicating Quentin, who wore a smugly amused expression that slowly gave way to shock and a furtiveness when he pulled her coin purse from his pocket.

"Oh yes, that's it! Why Serah Quentin, you should be ashamed of yourself," Grace admonished, refusing to give in to the desire to perform her dance of gloatiness. She had neither lied outright nor accused him of a crime and yet, he was being led off, protesting his innocence as the guards took him into custody.

"Do I even wish to know how your coins came into his possession?" her mother asked a short time later.

Aubrey, feathers soothed, had taken himself off to rest, his sensibilities offended by the entire episode. To her surprise and dismay, Grace found herself relieved that he was gone. She had hoped for a dalliance with a handsome man, a momentary fling, but that seemed out of the question, at least for the moment. Still, he had been particularly attentive and unless she was mistaken, he had asked to see her again, but that had been before the contretemps at the marketplace. Sighing, she ensured her mother was well, instructed Orana to toss the lilies and then departed for the keep.

"Serah Hawke, to what do I owe the honor?" Bran asked, looking up with a supercilious, superior smile.

"I've come to enlist your aid, you odious man," she retorted, ensuring he was the recipient of her fiercest scowl. He smirked, the patronizing, pretentious, punctilious – she'd fallen into the trap again and wanted to lean across his desk and box his ears.

"Indeed, Serah Hawke? What aid might I render to the woman who believes herself superior in every way?"

"All except one, Seneschal Bran. I am in need of a prisoner's address."

"The dungeon is all the address a prisoner has need of, Serah Hawke."

"Do not, for the love of the Maker's children, be so obtuse and obdurate!" she hissed, leaning across the desk to poke his chest with a sharp finger. His amber eyes narrowed and he looked with great deliberateness at the offending digit. She withdrew it.

"I should have known not to bother. I should have known that you would rather exchange hateful, hurtful, unhelpful words than actually assist someone in need," she sighed, the fight temporarily leaving her. She was shocked to feel the urgent burn of tears in her throat.

"What is it, Grace?" he asked, his voice warming with concern as he stood and came around the desk.

Oh! That was worse, that melting sensation of her insides at his sudden warmth, at the nearness, but at least the need to cry had vanished, leaving her cotton-mouthed. Was there no middle ground with them? With him? She swayed towards him, momentarily forgetting the purpose of her visit, in danger of throwing the last of her caution to the four winds. If he leaned forward even a hair's breadth, their lips would touch, she was sure and that surety led to her heart catapulting to her toes and back up.

"What aid may I offer?" he asked, his voice still warm and softened with concern. The answers that leapt to the forefront of her mind were not to be repeated to anyone, least of all _him_, but she thought they might keep her warm at night for some time to come.

She took a deep breath, shaking off the thoughts that flowered under his gaze and plunged into a shortened version of her day, ending with, "I need to search that man's home before he is set free. There is something havey-cavey about his behavior and I won't have him stalking my mother."

"Your disquiet does you credit, Serah Hawke. I have come to depend on your instincts. I will ensure he is not released today and you can expect a visit from me this evening. We'll search his home together."

It was on the tip of her tongue to explain he couldn't very well throw his temper at anyone they might encounter at Quentin's house. She thought she ought to mention the strangely high number of bandits and brigands roaming the streets, unfettered, as well, but decided if he didn't already know about them, it was high time he learned. And if a part of her felt the tiniest bit elated by the prospect of seeing his sword, she chose to ignore it.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"How very astute of you, Serah Hawke," Bran remarked dryly, pushing the door open with his foot.

"Why Branagh Drummond, are you afraid of the big, bad mansion?" Grace teased, pushing past him, but not before taking another look at the normally fastidiously dressed seneschal who was currently wearing a pair of brown leather trousers that fit him to perfection and a brandy-colored cotton shirt. He was holding a lethal looking sword in his gloved hand and the wind had ruffled his usually impeccably arranged hair, giving him a rather dashing – oh Maker, what was wrong with her?

"Maker forefend we should use stealth as a weapon," Bran uttered as he moved to stand beside her.

"I believe your cursing over the 'stubborn, recalcitrant door' and the 'poorly manufactured and indefensibly incomprehensible design of the lock' took care of that issue long before I spoke up," she replied, unable to hide her grin.

He gave her a brief, cool glance before heading off to the left just as she took several steps to the right. They both sighed and she waited for him to join her, which he didn't seem in a hurry to do. Rather, it appeared he was waiting for her to join him.

"Please accept my apology for the wound I am about to inflict on your ego, Seneschal Bran, but I do this for a living, a fact that cannot have gone unnoticed by you as you have hired me for a number of such tasks. You, on the other hand, push papers around your desk and bark orders from the safety of your office for a living. Whom do you believe should lead this little excursion?"

She mentally winced as a brief flash of anger flared in his eyes before he was once again cool and distant. Had she harbored any hopes of a romantic interlude after they left Quentin's she felt them wither and die under his chilly stare.

The upper stories were empty, save a large number of cobwebs, the spiders who adorned them, and the odd rat or two, all ignored or dispatched quickly. The cellar told a different tale. Grace stopped in the doorway, repulsed by the sight that greeted her.

It was a laboratory of some sort. A series of beakers burbled as they sat atop small burners; an ominous apparatus in the shape of a human female, judging by the curves, stood in the foreground, a series of leather straps running the length of the device. She shuddered, her mind refusing to walk any path that led to guessing as to its function.

But what caught and held her attention, what made her stomach roil and seethe, was the painting of a woman hanging on the wall above the contraption. A woman who looked remarkably like another woman she knew and loved.

"Is that Leandra?" Bran asked, moving across the room to stand beneath the portrait.

"How could it be?" When had her voice changed timbre? She sounded like a bawdy singer employed by a brothel, husky and low.

He stepped back and touched her arm. "Of course, there is an uncanny resemblance but it is not your mother," he reassured and she was pathetically grateful for his words.

They examined the room again but found nothing of an illegal nature. Macabre? Absolutely. Incomprehensible? Indubitably. But one couldn't be arrested and convicted for having exceptionally depraved habits.

"I wonder if he has another laboratory somewhere in Kirkwall? And can we find it before he pays his fine and is released? And what experiments is he conducting? For what purpose?" she asked, not expecting an answer.

"It is possible that his paperwork was sent on a rather circuitous route to the bailiff. By persons unknown to myself, naturally."

She smiled her thanks at him and was surprised to see a hint of tenderness, quickly extinguished, in his gaze. She was hallucinating, of course, brought on by shock at stumbling upon such hideous items. Yes, that was it.

"I believe we're done here and I am more than ready to leave," she said after another perusal of the room. She retraced her steps, her feet traveling in great haste. Not that she blamed them, the place was utterly horrifying; she followed her feet as quickly as she was able.

Outside, she breathed deeply, thankful for fresh, cool air. Bran, his face pale in the dim light of the street lamps, stood beside her. "I will not speak for you, Sera – Grace, but I am in need of a libation," he remarked quietly.

"Oh yes, at least one."

"We're closer to my home than yours, if you'll allow _me_ to lead now," he said, humor lacing his words.

"By all means," she agreed again, both of them surprised by her equanimity.

Obviously shock worked in strange and mysterious ways. That would also account for the disappointment she felt at his not having used his sword. She would have enjoyed seeing just how dashing a figure he cut. Although it was entirely possible her mother was just having her on about that. She glanced at his snugly fitting leathers and decided her mother was not, after all, bamming her.

They set off at a spanking pace and she was nearly breathless by the time they reached his modest estate. She'd been there once before, but the incident was one she wished not to recall. Or rather, she really couldn't remember most of it, and what she did made her cringe.

She hesitated when he opened the door, motioning for her to enter. Somehow it felt too intimate, as if the world was shifting and she was unable to see the path before her with any sort of clarity. He looked down at her as she stood on the bottom step, and there was something in his gaze, some vulnerability that frightened and emboldened her. She took the first step.

They barely made it inside before Bran pulled her into an embrace, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that made her common sense desert her.

Without allowing herself to contemplate the ramifications of their actions, she gave in to the kiss, returning it with fervor and wondering who had taken control of her. She hoped whoever it was stayed in control for the foreseeable future.


	12. Sons and Lovers

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, as always, for your sharp eye, sharp wit and timely tips!_  
_Thank you to all those following, lurking, reading and reviewing. I appreciate it more than I can say._

**Sons and Lovers**

"Father? Father, is that you?"

Grace froze, as did the pair of lips that had been, seconds earlier, traveling with great skill along the column of her neck. A number of replies came to her mind but she forsook them in favor of stepping back and observing the drain of color from Bran's face. No sooner had the color left it then an unattractive blotchy redness invaded it, as did a look composed in equal parts of guilt and joy. She could well imagine who was causing the guilt and it wasn't the young man who was entering the room. On the contrary, he was the subject of Bran's joy. Yes, the joy in his look was _definitely_ reserved for the young man.

"Keir?" Bran asked with the kind of wonderment she could only dream of inspiring.

"I – Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't…" the young man stammered, coming to a halt and looking first at Grace and then the man he was hailing as his father.

A silence fell, like a paralyzing fog, as the three eyed each other with varying expressions. Bran had removed himself from the close proximity he and Grace had shared and she felt the urge to bridge the gap and poke him in his eye. Not that she really blamed him, which served to further exacerbate her fit of pique. She was the first to find her voice.

"No, no, young man, _you've_ nothing to apologize for. I was just leaving. Yes, I – I have a prior engagement. Thank you for your assistance this evening, Seneschal Bran," Grace heard herself saying in a very proper, if somewhat breezy manner. She didn't feel breezy. On the contrary, she felt blown away by a gust of wind, but she was intent on mustering every bit of her deportment lessons to the fore, and at least none of her keen disappointment or mounting curiosity crept into her tone.

While counting reasons to discourage her desire to stay and watch the happy reunion between father and son, she added the fact that she had saved herself from trying to explain to the gossips how she came to have been bitten on her neck. That thought was less happy than it should have been. In fact, she felt particularly frustrated on that front and added it to the growing list of Bran's offenses.

Her lashes lowered to avoid giving away her thoughts, as if the muttonhead would be able to read her thoughts even if written in large print upon his forehead with a dull quill, she edged to the door, her hand reaching behind her for the knob and freedom. She imagined she'd given the citizens of Hightown quite enough to gossip about by stepping, with alarming celerity, into Bran's house in the dead of night.

Best beat a hasty retreat whilst I can, she told herself and turned her most gracious and charming smile on the father and son who were paying her not the slightest bit of attention.

"I'll be on my way now. Perhaps when your father has regained his senses, and therefore his manners, he'll introduce us properly," Grace said over her shoulder before easing out of the house.

She began a very brisk walk home, ignoring the number of lights on in the mansions surrounding Bran's square. No doubt the nobles were gathering in small clusters to whisper over the grave and grievous goings on in House Drummond. She was tempted to stop and dip a dainty curtsy or give a regal wave but settled for tilting her chin defiantly.

Her mind was agitated, as stirred up as wasps that had had their nest kicked, and she wondered what Keir's mother had looked like to produce a son as swarthy and dark-haired. He reminded her of Ser Bryant from the Lothering chantry, who had claimed a Rivaini heritage, as did Isabela, who was equally swarthy and hadn't she once made mention of being mar – no, her mind refused to even consider that possibility. A mere coincidence, she was convinced.

With her curiosity aroused and snickering at her, she realized sleep would be as elusive as a handful of sand so she changed course, heading for the stairs to Lowtown, and escape. Hopefully her companions were still gathered at the Hanged Man and, if not, there was always the Rusty Cock, she thought with a smile, her mood righting itself. Although the thought of the Rusty Cock made her steps falter ever so slightly.

The noise emanating from the Hanged Man informed her that her friends were still awake and making merry within. She was greeted with great joviality and a mug was immediately pushed into her hand. She accepted it gratefully and sank down on the bench beside Anders, who gave her a bleary smile, his eyes over-bright. She discovered the mug was empty, much to her dismay.

"Hawke, so good of you to join us!" he greeted with good cheer.

"Anders," she replied cautiously. "Is that you? Or do I speak with the inestimable spirit of Justice?"

"Both!" Anders exclaimed, his voice entirely too lively. He let out a giggle that was quickly interrupted by a hiccup.

"How fortunate for you both," she replied, removing his hand from her knee with a 'tsk, tsk' of her tongue.

Greetings were exchanged and Grace did her best not to feel as though she'd come late to the party even though that was exactly what she'd done. The group, as groups were wont, had divided into smaller, more intimate pairings and, for the moment, she was content to view them from afar.

Sebastian was trying not to sway in time with the woefully off-key drunk who was singing "Fare Thee Well, my Bonnie Lass," with more gall than heart. Merrill was chattering away at the young prince, as fluttery as a bird caught indoors. He affixed the elf with a bright blue stare, sternly shaking his head, and Merrill giggled. Grace was not at all sure she wanted to know the reason for either.

"Hiya, Hawke, what'll ya have?" Norah asked cheerfully, avoiding Anders's roving fingers with the artistry of a dancer.

"I'll have a flagon of mead, thanks," Grace replied with a grin of commiseration, once again removing the mage's hand from her knee. Norah wandered away with a vague nod and Grace turned her full attention on Anders.

"As a healer, you must already know that there are twenty-seven bones in the human hand, eight of which are in the wrist. I have a wonder, if you'll indulge me, _Junders_. How many of those small bones do you suppose I will break if you do not cease and desist appropriating my knee?"

"Eh, wot? Sorry, too much – hey, did you jus' order mead? Don't you hate that schtuff? And," he continued in a deep, resonating voice, "your point is well taken, Hawke. I will endeavor to exert more control. However, his question and confusion are legitimate. You have a strong aversion to the beverage you ordered."

"I do, yes, but as Norah has yet to deliver the drink I actually order, I have decided to confuse and befuddle her in hopes of getting a drink I'll actually enjoy.

"As to the first point, Justice, you should not exert _more _control, but less. You are a guest in Anders, lest you have forgotten, and a guest does not assume control, a guest merely listens and observes."

"Ah, a wise course of action, Hawke; thank you for your perspicacity."

"My, you have been paying attention, even when you aren't visibly present. I'm not sure if that's reassuring or terrifying," Grace replied.

"If it will assuage your concerns, I will bid you a pleasant evening and retire," Junders intoned.

"As you will, Justice. It was a rare treat conversing with you."

"And you, as well, Hawke. Good night."

Anders blinked and glanced at her, a cheeky grin lighting his face from within. "You could charm the knickers off Meredith," he gushed.

"I feel certain Meredith doesn't wear knickers. An iron chastity belt, perhaps, although that's a waste of good iron, I say."

There followed a few moments of silence while Anders shuddered at the image and she refrained from tousling his hair or pinching his cheek at his look of abject horror. Truly a mercurial temperament, she thought with a mental shake of her head. The diversion from her earlier thoughts of Bran, the interruption provided by his son's arrival, as well as the frightening glimpse into Serah Quentin's mind was welcome.

Isabela, playing liar's dice with Varric, glanced over her shoulder and gave Fenris, who was discussing battleground tactics with Donnic and Aveline, a smoldering smile that made the usually unflappable elf stutter ever so slightly on the word _penultimate_.

Aveline was hanging on every word Donnic the Oblivious was uttering and Grace found herself shaking her head. Somehow the two had managed not to grasp that they were attracted to each other and Grace had every confidence that it would fall to her and the others to set them on their intended path. If there was any irony in her reflections, she chose to ignore it.

A glass of whiskey was set before her with a wink from Norah before the waitress took a swipe at the tabletop with a rag. Grace, still feeling late to the party, glanced at her circle of friends and silently toasted them. The whiskey burned pleasantly on the way down and she was persuaded by an adorably tipsy Sebastian into a recounting of her eventful day.

By the time she was finished, her friends had gathered into a tight circle, wearing expressions that varied from horrified to angry. Never let it be said I am the life of a party, she thought, as I've well and truly murdered this one. She gave a bright smile at the end of her recitation by way of apology.

It was Varric who finally spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had consumed the group once she'd told her tale. "Holy shit, Hawke, you pissed off this scary guy who's stalking your mother and uses torture devices as a hobby? What are you, insane? If I was a betting man, I'd lay coin down on his retaliation being swift and certain. Oh wait, I _am _a betting man. Rivaini, what do you suppose the odds are on this?"

When he put it that way, Grace had to wonder what she had been thinking and any pride in her quick action evaporated like a puddle on a hot day. Of course the madman would know who had slipped her coin purse into his pocket. Naturally he would demand satisfaction. The mental image of her strapped to his table of torture rose and she blanched, feeling the blood as it traveled from her face to her toes, where her heart had taken up residence.

How could she have been such a rattle-brained, twitter-pated imbecile? Grace, feeling both incautious and improvident, blamed Bran for her lapse in judgment. And when the others insisted on walking her home, she neither discouraged nor dismissed them out of hand, except Anders, who, upon rising, swayed like a tree in a gale. He reminded her of a tipsy Dulci De Launcet and giggled much like her as well, Grace determined. She paid Corff for a room for the night and then turned to the burly barman in Corff's employment, handing him several silver pieces.

"You'll need to get him upstairs and tucked into bed, Briscoe."

"Aye, Hawke. Ye've me word on it."

With that, her entourage surrounding her, Grace swept out of the Hanged Man, carefully keeping her mind occupied with thoughts that did not revolve around Bran's masterful kisses or his son's untimely interruption.

It proved to be a monumental task.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Bran dipped the quill again, his hand darting from the inkpot to the parchment and back like a hummingbird that had just discovered a blooming honeysuckle vine as he penned a letter to his parents. He paused, reflecting on how much his son had grown in the six months since they had seen each other. He was tempted to have Keir remain with him, to work through the rumors and innuendo that would dog them if he stayed, but at the moment it was impractical and possibly dangerous.

The silence in his study was complete, not even a crackling fire disturbed the quiet as his quill hung suspended over the parchment. Sighing, he resumed his task and the soft scratch of the sharpened tip against the paper dispelled the peace as he continued the letter to his parents…

…_and, as much as having him here pleases me, I cannot allow him to stay. The situation with the Qunari deteriorates a little more each day and both Viscount Dumar and his esteemed advisor, Serah Hawke, believe violence may be inevitable. I do not wish Keir exposed to such danger. I will explain to him that he must return to Tantervale within the week, but I would spend time with him first. The months between visits weigh as heavily on me as they do Keir. _

_All rumors to the contrary, I am not now, nor have I ever been, courting Babette De Launcet. I cannot foresee any circumstance in which that would ever occur. Whoever spread such taradiddle should be censured for extreme idiocy, if not complete lunacy. However, in as much as I have started down this primrose path of prattling gossipmongering, I believe that Marlowe has attached his affections to Lady Leandra Amell Hawke. You will be pleased to know I have renewed my acquaintanceship with her and find her as amiable as ever. _

Bran paused, absent-mindedly trimming the point of his quill as his thoughts fixed on Leandra's daughter and the brambles he had landed in with regard to his own attachment of affections.

In all his careful machinations to avoid the matrimonial market, he had not expected to find himself attracted to any woman, and most especially not a woman as far from the nobility in temperament as Grace Hawke. A splotch of ink landed with unerring accuracy on his last sentence and he sighed, bringing out a small linen cloth and blotting the ink stain.

Resuming his letter, he was surprised to see himself writing an invitation for them to visit for the First Day festivities. He considered tearing the missive into tiny pieces and beginning anew but instead dipped his quill once more.

_Look for Keir and Ser Flemmell to arrive two weeks hence. _

_I remain your affectionate and grateful son,_

_Branagh _

Once the letter was sealed, he placed it in the diplomatic pouch that would be sent post-haste to the offices of the seneschal for Bentleigh Bingham, Lord Chancellor of Tantervale, and then made his way up the stairs, pausing at the door to his son's room. In years past he would have simply opened the door but now he found himself tapping lightly on the panel.

"Come in, Father!"

Keir was sitting up, an open book on his lap. "I can't believe you've kept this old book all these years," the boy laughed, indicating "Mistress Merrivale's Marvelous Mouse Tales."

"I find it difficult to believe you would be interested in such a book at your age," Bran replied, allowing himself a moment of pride as he studied his son. He had grown and filled out, his features more clearly defined. There wasn't a trace of Bran in the boy and yet, he felt as though they shared blood and bone. There was a teasing glint of mischief in his dark eyes and the thought that Keir and Grace could easily become friends made his stomach dip.

He was not at all happy with that thought, and it was an impossible scenario, given his boorish behavior earlier. What had caused his thoughts to slide into oblivion at his son's voice? As if I was guilty of a heinous crime, he thought with a soupcon of irritation. He'd behaved as cravenly as any young buck and deserved her reprobation and opprobrium.

"It will not be long before you tower over me at the rate you are growing," he added after several moments of silence.

With a mental wince at the inanity of the remark, Bran moved into the room and found himself smiling at the face his son was making, a grimace that young men his age from time immemorial wore when doting parents embarrassed them with their fawning.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Father?"

There were times, at the age of thirty-six, that Bran did not feel old enough to be a father, especially not the father of a young man heading pell-mell into adulthood. "You _may_, yes," he replied, the correction automatic.

"May, right. I knew that but I felt you might want to do a bit of fatherly scolding," his son replied with a bright, if somewhat sassy, grin.

"How commodious and solicitous of you, Keir. Very well, Son, what question would you have me answer?" Bran asked, pinching his nose to prevent the sudden need to smile in reply.

"Who was that woman you were ravishing when I entered the room? She seemed very nice and you certainly thought so."

Bran felt a wave of heat and let out a soft groan of embarrassment at his son's youthful forthrightness. "Someone who will, no doubt, flay me when next we meet."

"Is it serious?"

Was it? Underneath her rough and tumble lifestyle was a woman of uncommon beauty and, for lack of a more fitting description, grace. She was exasperating, infuriating, intoxicating and mesmerizing…dangerously so. Even had he a wish to walk away from her, he no long had the ability to.

"It is, in fact, serious," Bran admitted quietly.

His son moved to make room for Bran, patting the space in invitation. "I'd like to hear more, Da," he said softly, shyly.

_Da_? An endearment he had not expected from a son who spent most of his time with his grandparents. Bran felt a wide, foolish grin form which he quickly suppressed for fear of frightening his son. He sat down and found himself recounting the tale of his first meeting with Grace.

"She sounds like an out and outer. You need to woo her, Da. Let her know you care."

"Yes, I believe I was doing that before this evening's debacle."

"You should send her flowers," Keir advised, smiling sympathetically.

"I do not believe flowers would serve to regain her esteem, should I have ever actually managed to acquire it in the first place."

"Maybe ask her over for dinner? That way I could meet her, maybe put in a good word for you," his son continued eagerly.

"I fear it would take more than a good word, Keir, but thank you for generously offering your assistance. I think it best to refrain from any action which might further exasperate the woman."

"A fine hobble you're in," his son commented.

"A fine hobble, indeed," Bran heard himself agree. "I've made a complete cake of myself."

His son's silence on the matter indicated tacit agreement with his assessment.

"Go over there now, then. Throw pebbles at her window and when she opens the window to see who it is, serenade her."

"What tripe are your grandparents allowing you to read that you would come up with such romantic twaddle?" Bran huffed, outraged to think that a son of his would be reading romance novels, which only served to remind him of Grace's unusual predilection for reading tawdry romances. His outrage dissipated, leaving him feeling oddly deflated.

But the notion of going to speak with her, once planted in his brain, refused to leave.

An hour later, having assured himself that his son was comfortably ensconced in his bedchamber with a literary masterpiece, Bran let himself out of his estate and began the short walk to Grace's mansion.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sleep was, indeed, the elusive stranger that night. Grace sat up in bed and relit the lamp, her mind returning with vexatious regularity to a certain seneschal. She finally reached for her discarded clothes and struggled into them before hurrying down the stairs with no clear intent or plan, only a vague sense of umbrage at the manner in which Bran Drummond had treated her.

Before she could open the front door, Bodahn, resplendent in striped night clothes and matching nightcap, set at a jaunty angle, appeared. "Do you need something, Lady Grace?"

She blinked, surprised by the bright red stripes of his nightwear as much as his presence. "No, nothing, thank you. I just thought I'd take a brisk stroll around the square," she announced with an airy wave of her hand.

Had he rolled his eyes? She was quite sure she heard a disbelieving snort from him, but he simply nodded and turned to go, presumably to return to his bedroom. He stopped and turned back to her.

"Sandal's made mention of a creepy lady visiting at night. You don't suppose he means – no, never mind. Enjoy your walk, Lady Grace."

Aggrieved that he would even consider such fiddle-faddle, she hesitated, intentions torn between discovering more about the creepy lady that Sandal had made mention of, or finding and filleting Bran Drummond. When put in such blunt terms, her course was clear.

Bran was deserving of a tongue lashing, at the very least, perhaps a verbal filleting, something she felt quite happy to provide. Her mind winced at the images that produced and her ire toward the snide little seneschal increased. Yanking the door open, she came to an abrupt halt, face to face with the bane and scourge of Kirkwall.

"You!" she hissed angrily.

"Serah Hawke!" he exclaimed, obviously flustered by her sudden appearance. His hair had been attacked by wild ferrets, from the look of it, and his disposition was in shocking disarray. He appeared at complete sixes and sevens, unable to do more than stare at her like a bemused schoolboy.

She drew a deep breath, preparing for a set-down of historic proportions when the unthinkable happened. She felt a smile curve her lips, her anger slinking off like a petulant child.

No doubt stunned into speechlessness by her smile, Bran stared at her and then, without hesitation, swept her into his arms, his lips descending with flattering haste. She pulled back, glaring at him.

"If it is your intent to kiss me as if I am some prime bit of muslin and then slither back to your estate because you consider yourself entirely too top lofty for someone of my low station, leave now whilst your parts are all still in their appropriate places and functioning as intended," she growled.

He blinked, the passion in his gaze slowly rising as he stared at her. Was his heart pounding so loudly that she could hear it? Or was that hers? Before she could determine whose heart was beating so loudly, he said, with great insistence and conviction, "I have no such intention, Serah Hawke. I am, in fact –"

Grace interrupted him with a well timed placement of her lips and he seemed more than willing to reply in kind. Their mouths melded, tongues warring until she conceded the battle and the kiss continued. Breathless, they broke apart and she was surprised to find her fingers had tangled in his thick auburn hair. She wondered if her lips were as swollen as his and then he was pulling her back in for another kiss and she lost all ability to think, a low moan whimpering from her throat as his lips left hers to once again trail along the column of her neck.

A light came on in the mansion across from hers and then another in the estate on its right. A third light appeared in the Arenbergs' home. If they didn't remove themselves from the public view, they risked more than simple gossip, and while she didn't care in the slightest, she knew Bran did. She reached behind her and slowly turned the door knob but a delightful nip at a particularly sensitive spot on her neck by a pair of practiced lips caused her to loosen her grip on the knob. The door swung open, and, without its support, she tumbled backwards, pulling Bran with her to land in a heap on the floor, all tangled limbs and laughter.

"Grace Hawke! Are you in your cups again?"

"No! Mother, don't come down, everything's fine!" Grace cried, her laughter continuing unabated. She felt the warmth of Bran's laughter tickling her skin, fueling her own merriment.

"What in the Maker's name? Branagh Drummond, you scapegrace! Get off my daughter this instant!"

Their laughter died a painfully embarrassed death.


	13. Imbroglios

**Imbroglios**

Naturally, they all began to speak at once.

"Lady Leandra, I assure you – "

"Bran, stop wiggling, you're pulling –"

"You are hardly in a position to – "

"Enchantment?"

"Should I make tea, Lady Leandra?"

"Oh, my lady! You have fallen and can't get up!" Orana exclaimed in distress.

Grace was struggling to untangle her limbs from Bran's, which was proving humiliatingly more problematic than it should have as the small hooks on the cuff of his shirt insisted on catching in her hair. Eyes watering as she tried to disengage a length of said hair from his wrist, her mirth once again awoke and she found herself laughing, throwing her hands up in resignation and immediately ruing such an action as her hair was painfully pulled.

"Do not move," Bran commanded and she dared not look at him for fear her laughter would completely overwhelm her. Really, she was behaving like a complete peagoose and she blamed the man whose hands were still tangled, literally, in her hair.

"Grace Hawke, stand up this minute!" her mother demanded in the same moment.

"You two really ought to put your heads together and decide which is the most correct course of action because I assure you I cannot do both at the same time," Grace replied with a small huff as she fought to keep her laughter from spilling forth. "And if either of you feels a need for a jobation, I beg you save it for another time."

She bent once more to the task of removing her hair from his hooks, ignoring the crowd gathered around them. Bran was of no help, seemingly flustered out of all proportion. She had no doubt he would be his fulminatory self in the morning but, at the moment, he appeared appealingly youthful and adorably embarrassed. Having thrown propriety on its ear, she further compounded her multitude of social sins by leaning in and bestowing a kiss on his cheek, which turned pink under her attention.

"A jobation being read over you will be the least of your worries, young lady," her mother threatened, but with far less invective and far more humor than the words indicated. Turning to Orana, Bodahn and a wide-eyed Sandal, she continued, "That will be all, thank you," in as serene and regal a tone as if Grace and Bran were joining her for tea and not rolling on the ground trying to disentangle themselves.

"Such an imbroglio," her mother sighed as she knelt down to assist. "Did I not warn you that Branagh Drummond was a scamp?" she added, sending Bran a hint of a smile.

Try as she might, Grace felt no embarrassment or shame in her predicament. In fact, she couldn't remember when an evening had been so enjoyable, but upon inspecting her fellow mischief maker, she found him positively awash in both.

Once they were extricated, he quickly regained his feet and then reached down to assist her mother, leaving Grace to scramble to her feet on her own. "Now, I recommend we discuss this in a more favorable light; preferably daylight," her mother continued. "Bid the gentleman good-night, Grace."

Surreptitiously eyeing the gentleman in question, Grace realized that was the wisest course of action as she had a very strong desire to re-entangle herself with him. She wondered if the illness that had obviously assaulted her common-sense was life-threatening and thought a visit to Anders for a diagnosis and treatment might be in order.

"Good night, Grace," Bran uttered. "Leandra," he added with a stiff little bow and then turned on his heel, head held high, and disappeared into the night.

It wasn't until she was in bed that she wondered why he hadn't had more to say on the entire matter and what had prompted him to appear at her door in the middle of the night to begin with. Tossing and turning in frustration, she bid sleep overtake her but it appeared sleep had departed with Bran.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The Morning Room, entirely too bright and cheery for her liking, was awash in sunlight which streamed through the tall windows without the least regard for Grace's headache. Ensconced in her favorite chair, wearing a dazzling gown of dark purple silk and sipping daintily from a delicately painted teacup, her mother was also entirely too bright and cheery for her liking.

"Good morning, dear. Such a diverting, droll performance last evening, I cannot remember when last I was so thoroughly entertained."

Grace arched a brow at her mother and sat with great care to avoid further upsetting the large bruise that had formed where her hip and the floor had met the previous evening. "You conferred upon the most dignified and decorous man in all the Free Marches the title of 'scapegrace', Mother. All protestations to the contrary, I did not deduce you were entertained so much as aggrieved."

A brief, altogether graceful shiver fluttered through her mother. "One can be forgiven a momentary lapse in even-temperament, surely? The vision of the staid, lofty seneschal and my daughter, a young woman of great distinction and grace, rolling about on the floor like common rantipoles was more than anyone should have to bear. Only with great fortitude did I not succumb to the vapors. Honestly, Grace, what were you thinking? Had I a weaker constitution your behavior might have brought about apoplexy and where would I be then?"

Setting her teacup down with uncustomary care, Grace was forced to shake her head at her mother's melodramatics. "You are truly without peer, Mother. The greatest stages of Thedas are made poorer by your absence."

A pleased smile formed on her mother's lips, softening her eyes. "Thank you, dear. Keep that in mind when next you try to shock me with such havey-cavey behavior."

"You think I behaved thusly in order to shock you?"

"Surely you can't have honestly invited his embraces? Your scornful, derogatory and disparaging remarks with regard to the seneschal would indicate a deep and abiding abhorrence of the man. Has that changed, my lovely flower?"

"Now, you've gone over the top, Mother, and lost all credibility. You cannot call me a rantipole in one breath and a lovely flower in the next."

"And you have failed to answer my question, which is, I believe, an answer in and of itself."

Grace refused to concede the point, reaching for a freshly baked blackberry tart before replying, "My heart is my own, though your concern for its wellbeing is all that is kind and gracious."

"Do not try to gammon me, Grace Hawke. There was a moment, when surveying the debacle of evening last, when I was quite convinced that a bucket of cold water might be necessary as you both lay there laughing like the veriest lunatics and yet neither of you seemed capable of unhanding the other."

An unexpected, unwelcome and highly unusual heat rushed into her cheeks and Grace was forced to lower her head, lest her mother accuse her of being love-struck and moon-addled.

"I believe this discussion has reached its conclusion, Mother."

"Honestly, Grace, will you not take pity upon your poor mama and give her even the faintest ray of hope that a match is in the making?"

"I cannot help but feel pity, 'tis true, but not for you, dear Mother. On the contrary, my empathy falls on poor Viscount Dumar, who cannot possibly be aware of your machinations and manipulations, though I concede that they are very prettily done."

"Thank you, dear. I treasure your appreciation of my skills."

Laughter overtook any further banter and Grace finished her tea and tart in quiet contemplation of the previous evening's escapades. "Tell me, Mother, what do you know of Bran's wife?"

"Nothing, Grace, and no good comes of gossiping. If Bran wishes you to know, he will discuss it with you."

The serious note in her mother's tone surprised Grace. "I only ask because Keir looks nothing like his father," she continued, despite the seriousness in her mother's expression.

"As to looks, one cannot always judge a child by its appearance alone."

"What an odd thing to say, Mother. I look nothing at all like you but my temperament is very much yours. One would know we are related by that if nothing else."

"Leave it, Grace, I implore you. Once Bran has this silly wager behind him I am sure he will…" her mother trailed off and then said, her voice as bright as a newly minted coin, "Oh, do have another tart, dear. Are they not the most delicious of confections?"

Grace smiled indulgently at her mother's antics. "Do not think to fob me off in the same manner you employed whilst I was still a child, Mother. It is beneath us both. Now, have another go, and this time perhaps distract me with the promise of a new gown or the latest gossip."

Her mother sighed and shook her head. "You are far too chary for your own good. I was merely offering you refreshment as you look positively famished, which is hardly surprising given the activities of last night."

"Give over, do."

A look of distress overcame the one of adamancy her mother wore. "I will speak no more of that scapegrace this morning, Grace, so prepare yourself for disappointment should you continue in that vein."

Rolling her eyes, a luxury she rarely afforded herself in front of her mother, Grace stood. "Very well, Mother, have it your way…for the moment." She took another blackberry tart and then, with a sigh, returned it and brushed her hands before continuing. "I have several appointments this morning and do not anticipate returning until this afternoon. Please, please do not entertain any notion of traveling to the market without an adequate escort."

The look of distress transformed into one of curiosity. "Why ever not, dear?"

For long moments, Grace was tempted to hold her information hostage until her mother consented to speak of Keir's parentage, but she found she couldn't bring herself to do so. She sank back into her chair and gave her mother a brief overview of Quentin, the visit to his home and the odd and frightening discoveries there. She refrained from making mention of Quentin's probable, and justifiable, rage that was sure to be directed at her, but she had underestimated her mother's ability to see a truth no matter how well hidden.

"I have every confidence that Aveline has assigned guards to escort you," her mother stated with calm authority.

"Why would she do that?"

"Bran will have insisted upon it."

Grace's temper awoke and she bid it welcome. "He won't have insisted on any such course of action unless he has a desire to be publicly flayed with a cat o' nine tails. I am quite capable of looking after myself." Maker, did none of her friends or family believe her competent with regard to protecting herself?

Sebastian and Varric were waiting for her when she stepped outside. Having slipped her dagger into a cunningly devised sheath strapped to her thigh and hidden by her sensible grey frock, she felt assured of her safety. Seeing them, both trying to appear nonchalant – and failing miserably, especially Sebastian – gave her anger another excuse to surface.

"Varric, Sebastian. What brings you to this particular spot at this particular time of day?" she asked quietly. It was that very stillness that made Sebastian's face pale, she felt sure. It was, he had claimed on several occasions, the precursor to the storm.

"I will not lie, Hawke, we're that worried about your safety," he confessed.

Varric rolled his eyes. "Where were you when that Maker of yours was handing out backbones, Choirboy?" He sent a charming smile in Grace's direction which she answered with a raised brow. "Come on, Hawke, you know you love our company," he said, puffing out his chest to great effect.

"Don't turn this into a festival of guilt, Varric. You know it will not avail you. Besides, I am off to see Aveline, followed by a meeting with the seneschal. I can't think either of them are particularly dangerous, but if your aim is to prevent my death by boredom, by all means, join me, friends," she invited with a sweep of her arm.

Varric's nonchalance wobbled noticeably. "Oh, is that all? See, Choirboy, I told you it wasn't anything to worry about."

Sebastian, looking startled, shook his head. His piercing blue eyes - the exact shade of Junders in a snit – blinked several times before settling on Varric with a hurt expression. "You distinctly said that –"

"Whoa, is that tarts I smell?" Varric broke in, sniffing mightily.

"Tarts?" Sebastian asked hopefully, whatever he'd intended to say falling victim to the possibility of tarts.

There were several choice remarks offering themselves up, but in the end Grace decided against them. "Blackberry and fresh this morning. Mother will be delighted to see you both," she assured them over her shoulder with an airy wave, before beginning a brisk walk to Viscount's Keep, ignoring the two guards, Cagney and Lacey, who were following at a discreet distance.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Well, find out!" Bran barked at the young lieutenant. "And tell the guard captain to expect a visit from me in precisely twenty minutes," he added tightly.

"Yes, Seneschal Bran, immediately!" the man answered, saluting smartly, before a look of confusion came over him. "Uh, which should I do first? Find out or inform Captain Aveline?" he asked, scratching his head.

A headache, present from the moment he'd opened his eyes that morning, threatened to blind him but Bran did not allow it to interfere with his scowl. "If you are unable to determine the course of action best suited to accomplishing both tasks in a timely and efficient manner, I suggest you present yourself to Captain Aveline, inform her of my visit and then tender your resignation," he replied with all the warmth of a blizzard.

As soon as the man had departed, Bran closed his eyes and massaged his temples. A long day was destined to become interminable as his mind once again returned to the previous night's contretemps. What had possessed him to listen to his son, who had no experience with women, rather than his own common sense? And, Maker take him, he couldn't seem to think straight or keep his lips and hands to himself in Grace's company. What was the matter with him that he would behave in so ramshackle a fashion?

He had spent most of the night reliving the nightmare, wondering how he might gracefully extricate himself and realizing even had he the will to do so, which he most certainly did not, he had no wish to hurt her and it was apparent that she had developed feelings for him. He felt the tiniest urge to preen at that but was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle outside his office. He half rose when the door was thrown open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall.

Naturally, Grace stood in the open doorway, hands on hips and censorious glower on her face. "Well, find out!" she demanded to some unseen person, her words flung over her right shoulder.

Turning her ire on him, she continued with enough heat to melt the hinges of his door, "Seneschal Bran, I cannot fathom why anyone would have allowed that monstrous fiend loose upon the streets of Kirkwall! Did you not state that his paperwork was taking a circuitous route?"

Aside from the fact that she had addressed him like he was a lowly civil servant, not worthy of her time, her voice was attracting unwarranted attention to the matter of his culpability, but he found he was most wounded by her uncivil dismissal of him. His anger marshaled his thoughts most effectively.

"There is no need for you to stand there shouting like a baseborn termagant, Serah Hawke. Come in and close the door. I have already ordered a search for the man and your ravings will not speed the process along." An internal sigh wandered around in the confines of his mind. His defenses had immediately risen and he felt as though they had returned to their earliest days.

The door was shut with exceedingly calm determination and Bran recognized the signs of her high dudgeon immediately, preparing himself for a battle royal. With that same calm precision, she made her way to a chair and sat down, turning narrowed blue eyes on him. "He will have gone to ground now, no doubt creating gruesome minions who will do his bidding, which undoubtedly include my termination."

"Do you believe, even for a moment, that I am not fully cognizant of that fact?"

"I can hardly be faulted for an inability to guess just what you might be mindful of, Seneschal Bran."

The sigh escaped him before he was able to consign it to the depths. For every step forward they managed, there were half a dozen steps taken in the wrong direction. She was as contrary and prickly a creature as ever he'd encountered, yet she had ensconced herself in his thoughts and mind and heart, firmly and irrevocably, and he couldn't imagine his life without her in it to bedevil and beguile him. He'd grown accustomed to her face; her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs. They were second nature to him now. He managed to swallow the groan that accompanied that revelation.

"Grace," he began, once again attempting to strike a note of sense and sensibility, "we will find the man; you have my word."

She openly sneered at that promise, in an offensive and derisive manner. He bit back a bilious reply and tried again. "I wish to discuss last night," he continued as if she wasn't sending daggers at him. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought – "

"Spare me your fuliginous lucubrations, Seneschal Bran. I have no desire for a brangle with you this morning," she interrupted, muscles atwitch in the firm jaw that had proven eminently kissable. He found himself momentarily distracted by the notion. As he stared at it, he realized his next move was of paramount importance.

The sensible course of action, and one he could not be faulted for taking, was to agree and dismiss the kiss as a strange confluence of events, never to be undertaken again. With her penchant for landing in the boughs, and his position as the seneschal for the ruler of Kirkwall, the risks of censure, ridicule and heartbreak were high. But, if ever he was to become entangled with a woman again it would be her, and he knew it even if she still pretended otherwise…or fought against it.

"Do not deny the attraction now, Grace, lest you become known as the greatest fabulist ever to favor the city of Kirkwall," he continued, standing and moving around his desk.

She rose in one swift, elegant movement as he approached her. "As to my _fuliginous lucubrations_, I have no dark and ponderous thoughts, nor did I last night," he continued quietly, stopping when he reached her. And, while he admitted to himself that was not entirely true, he was content not to share his earlier thoughts at the moment.

"Is this part of your wager?" she asked, her voice honeyed, and not in a manner that engendered soothing or calming thoughts. "Get the poor little barbarian to fall in love with her instructor?"

His heart gave an odd skip. How had she learned about the wager? And had she just admitted that she loved him? Impossible! Yet, as the conversation replayed in his head he wondered if he might not borrow her dance of gloatiness. Upon further reflection, he thought better of it, given her present disposition. Long moments passed and he finally decided that the only course of action not suicidal was to be forthright. Even then, it seemed a dubious proposition.

"There was no such wager tendered nor accepted, Grace. I did accept a wager to ensure you were presentable to society by the First Day Ball."

Her expression became shuttered and she moved away from him. Why had he not denied a wager ever having been made? What had induced him to take such an imbecilic risk? Did he hope she would walk away, saving them both from a monumentally flawed and foolish notion that they should be together?

"I see. You do realize that I will now do my utmost to ensure that wager is lost?" she remarked with the same sweetness of voice that made him question his sanity.

"Naturally, that is your prerogative, Grace. I am hardly surprised by it, now that I think upon the matter."

She whirled around, so close that her hair feathered around him as she moved. He blinked away a sudden need to let his hands sift through it, to breathe in the sandalwood and gardenias that scented her skin and hair. He was a complete and utter nodcock, he derisively reminded himself as she glared at him.

"If your intent was to wound me in some form of retribution for our earlier arguments, you have succeeded," she hissed, the honey having disappeared in favor of venom. With that, she turned and stalked from the room, the door closing with an accusatory _click_ of metal as the hinges sighed into place.

While there may have been a part of him at some point that might have felt that need to defend himself by hurting her, it had disappeared so long ago he could no longer remember it. He moved decisively to the door and opened it, only to come face to face with the viscount, who was frowning apologetically.

"I very much fear I have upset Knight Commander Meredith."

Bran's headache returned with the vengeance of a scorned lover.

**~~~oOo~~~**

It proved extremely easy to lose her shadows. She hadn't even tried but when she rounded a corner and glanced over her shoulder, they were nowhere to be seen. Rather than take solace in the fact, she felt the tiniest bit of concern, not that it altered her destination.

She was, she decided some moments later, overdressed for the seedy streets of the foundry district of Lowtown. Her grey silk gown with the lace trim was perfect for the halls of Viscount's Keep but glaringly out of place in the mean streets of Lowtown. She hurried her steps, looking for the old iron foundry that her inquiries had led her to.

Glancing around surreptitiously, she breathed easier when she realized that most of the denizens were too busy sharing rotgut and rumors to pay attention to the eccentric lady in silk. The door, of course, was locked. Short of banging on it and awakening Maker only knew what, she removed a hairpin, as Isabela had taught her, and began to work the lock. After breaking two hairpins and giving voice to a few colorfully whispered curses, the lock sprang and she eased the door open.

A surfeit of cobwebs and skittering sounds greeted her when she stepped into the building and quietly closed the door behind her. She had learned, long ago, that the best way to deal with the creatures of the dark was to ignore them and she made her way silently through the old foundry, thankful that her kid slippers complied with her need for stealth.

As was to be expected, a demon guarded the inner sanctum. In fact, there were three demons, all intent on making her their dinner. She was prepared for such an eventuality, having resided in Kirkwall long enough to know demons were as commonplace as templars within the city's walls. Her dagger, as well as the lead pipe she had picked up during her exploration, proved most efficacious in dispatching them.

After they were gone, she stood silently, listening for any sound that might indicate where Quentin was. To the left was a trapdoor and with a huff of impatience, she went to it and carefully made her way down a rickety set of steps. Into a veritable shrine. She blinked, surprised by the bright chandelier overhead and the raised altar upon which was one of her mother's discarded gowns, a pair of dancing slippers from a bygone era and dozens of white lilies. Above the altar was another portrait of the woman who could have been Leandra's twin.

Beside the altar was a book that looked to be a personal journal. She opened it and began to skim the lines, holding the book up towards the bright glow from the chandelier. And immediately wished she had not. He had apparently been following her and her mother for some time and his disjointed, maniacal rantings made her skin want to crawl off into a corner and whimper. How, she wondered, had he managed to come to the conclusion that the seneschal was important to her? The salacious old geezer! And did everyone in the Free Marches suspect she harboured feelings for Bran?

Carefully replacing the journal, Grace wondered idly if the dagger and lead pipe would be enough to kill a man who was obviously stark raving, howling-at-the-moon, mad. Not that she had long to ponder the situation. The squeak of leather shoes on stone flooring made every hair on her arms, as well as her head, stand up and shiver.

Turning slowly, she saw Quentin moving towards her, an adoring simper sitting on his face. "She's beautiful, isn't she? My beloved wife. Even death can't break the bonds of love."

"That woman is your wife?" Grace asked, pointing at the portrait with her lead pipe. "Did she leave you before or after you went mad?"

The spell hit her squarely in the chest, sending her tumbling backwards to land against a bookcase, which teetered and tottered, books raining down around her. She winced as one caught her shoulder and then she was searching for her pipe, wrapping her fingers around it and launching to her feet.

The room exploded with sound and motion and she was shocked to see Bran, Aveline, Sebastian and Varric clamoring down the rickety stairs. Quentin darted away and she followed without acknowledging the others, swinging her lead pipe and yelling at the man, sounding as demented as he did.

She entered the darkened room and found him bent over a grotesque form on a table, a compilation of female parts, all save for a face. She shuddered, throwing herself backwards, away from the table and the monster who was trying to recreate his wife. He turned and came after her, his expression as cold and bleak as a Ferelden winter.

"Your mother would have been perfect but you destroyed it all. You have no idea how I have suffered, but you will. Shall I take the thing you love most away from you? Shall I?" he bit out, laughter following his words. That much crazy in one person was frightening to behold and her heart somersaulted with fear.

He turned as the others entered the room and his eyes fastened on Bran. "Yes, I believe I shall."

Without hesitation, she swung the pipe, catching him on the back of his head. Bone and metal collided, making her stomach lurch and tumble unhappily, and causing the insane mage to fall to the ground, dead.

"Hawke!" Aveline admonished, sounding peeved at the mess Grace had created. "I wanted to bring him in for questioning. Now I'll drown in paperwork."

"You're welcome," Grace muttered, sinking down to her knees and begging her stomach not to do anything embarrassing.

"You're that brave, Hawke! What an arm. We've a game in Starkhaven, with iron mallets, wooden balls and metal hoops. You'd be smashing at it," Sebastian said in admiration.

Varric calmly handed her his flask, but before she could take a sip, Bran was on his knees beside her, pulling her close. "You foolish, frustrating woman," he uttered furiously, giving her a shake that made her teeth rattle. "I could throttle you."

"Such an odd way of courting," she mumbled, settling into his arms and pretending that it was just an ordinary day, except for the tears that had started falling without her permission. Tears, she decided with a mighty sniff, were a better alternative than losing the contents of her stomach.

"Everyone out! Can't you see they need a minute?" Varric ordered, his voice rising ever so slightly in panic as he shooed everyone towards the other room. No doubt terrified of my tears, Grace thought, filing that useful bit of information away for another day.

"What am I going to say in my report?" Aveline demanded, refusing to budge. She unbent enough to drape a sheet over the strange body and another over Quentin before glaring at her companions. "Well?" she snarled, her green eyes finally settling on Varric.

"Just say: Grace killed the mage in the laboratory with the lead pipe."

**A/N:** _Thank you, Lisa, as always, for your awesome beta-goodness!_  
_Thank you to all who are favoriting, following, reading and reviewing! Your support is very much appreciated!_


	14. Can't Say No

**Can't Say No**

Morning came before Grace was ready for it. She pulled the covers over her head, refusing Orana's offer to assist her in dressing. She listened as the elf backed out of the room and quietly shut the door before closing her eyes and drifting off again.

What seemed like moments later, Grace felt a weight settle on her bed and she cautiously lifted the blanket enough to see her mother sitting in a pose of great reluctance, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

"What is it?" Grace asked, sitting up abruptly, her heart catching in sudden fear.

"I cannot decide if I should send for the viscount's healer, who he magnanimously offered the services of, or your handsome friend, Anders, for surely you must be ill to stay abed so late of a morn."

Once her heart had resumed its normal rhythm, Grace glared at her mother. "Must you always play to an audience? And is it not the expectation that a young woman of refinement will rise _so late of a morn_?"

"Fiddle-dee-dee, Grace! When have you ever cared the least bit about the expectations of others?"

Grace pulled the covers back over her head, refusing to answer.

"Saemus and Keir are below, cooling their youthful exuberance in the Green Room. Poor Orana is beside herself as Marmalade has decided he should keep them company."

Keir was the temptation that led her to poke her head out from under the covers, although her Mabari keeping anyone besides herself company ran a close second. She was curious about Keir and the sooner she was able to vent some of that curiosity on the subject himself, the happier she would be.

"Mother, you should have mentioned their visitation immediately. It ill behooves us to keep the viscount's son waiting," she reproved, sliding off the bed in search of her wrapper.

"Indeed, daughter. Had I known mention of _Saemus_ would produce such beneficent results, I would have remarked upon his arrival sooner. I am sure that Keir Drummond's presence is of _no_ consequence and I should send the young man on his way. He is, after all, of a lower social status."

"Do not distress yourself with such a notion, Mother. I am not in the least concerned by one's station in life."

"But dear, did you not just say that someone of Saemus's stature should not be kept waiting?"

Grace, struggling to put her tangled hair to rights, sighed in resignation and handed the hairbrush to her mother. "I suppose trying to disabuse you of such a notion will be an utter waste of time?"

"I suppose you are correct, Daughter."

"Then I shan't bother, but do let me remark upon the devious directions your mind wanders in."

"Devious? My dear, that's laying it on a bit heavy-handed. I merely pointed out an inconsistency in your words."

"Do you remember when Old Man Barlin became quite irate with the crows eating his crops? Do you recall that your name was put forth as the perfect scarecrow because of your constant prattling?"

Her eyes met her mother's in the large oval mirror and she saw her mother's eyes crinkle in good humor. "I do and your point is taken. However, I also recall that your father paid quite dearly for that remark."

Laughter graced her room as both women took a moment to recall a different life. A brief time later Grace hurried down the stairs and made her way to the Green Room, where Marmalade was keeping a sleepy eye on their guests, his paws folded and his lids drooping.

The seneschal's son was dressed in the latest style and was quite presentable as he stood before her. His doublet was a deep shade of dark green with plain gold piping and slashed sleeves, his white shirt visible through the slashing. He immediately bent his leg most gracefully.

Saemus, dressed in a fashionably bright doublet of turquoise, and with a strawberry scone nearly obliterated in one bite, waved a hand at her and chewed happily on his scone.

After a brief curtsy to Keir, she took a chair near him and said, "Tell me what brings you to Kirkwall, Keir, and don't even try to gammon me with lies about what a lovely spot it is."

The young boy shook his head with youthful enthusiasm, an engaging grin settling on his lips. "I already tried that one on my father and he didn't believe it for a minute. He says you're sharp-witted for a Fereldan. Is that true?"

She raised a brow, not at all perturbed by the young boy's question, but Saemus nearly dropped his cup of tea in shock, his vivid blue eyes as wide as the saucer he put his teacup on. "Nice one, Keir. Sharp-witted for a _Fereldan_? Want to ask her if she's really killed over a hundred people with her daggers while you're at it?"

Keir's dark eyes widened just as a sweep of color entered his cheeks. Taking pity on him, she turned to Saemus with a wink. "He hasn't had the ill-fortune of hearing of my exploits, Saemus, and you, I believe, asked me a similar question upon our first meeting. Do you not recall?"

"Ha! Do I? You slaughtered the entire mercenary group Father hired to find me. Couldn't have happened to a worthier group of basta – scoundrels, I say."

"You _killed_ a company of mercenaries?" Keir broke in, tea forgotten.

"I fear I am unable to answer that, Messere Keir. Oh, that's a pleasant rhyme, is it not?"

"Stop bamming us, Grace! Tell him about the Winters. It was amazing. She came up to the leader, Ginnis, and gutted her like a fish. Served the bi…" Saemus trailed off and gave her a stricken look. "Sorry, Grace," he mumbled.

"Well, and so you should be, Saemus Dumar," she scolded and then smiled. "I did not gut her like a fish…such a horribly inaccurate description. I would say I pushed a dagger through her heart but she didn't actually possess one, if memory serves. And the reason I won't answer questions is because young Master Drummond has not answered my question."

The lad in question ducked his head and admitted, "I thought my father might be getting lonely but I was wrong, wasn't I?"

"Quite commendable of you to concern yourself with your father and I can certainly understand why you would worry about such a thing. It isn't as if your father is overtly – "

"Good morning," the young man's father said, standing in the doorway, his voice only a few degrees above frigid.

Surprised not by his visit but, rather, by his tone, Grace's smile slipped at the edges. What had she done _this_ time to warrant such a cold and polite greeting? She was tempted to go to him and kiss him until he warmed up and she rose to do so but Keir's presence stopped her. Instead she went to the bell pull and gave it a quick, decisive yank.

"Good morning, Seneschal Bran. How gracious of you to drop by," she said, her tone indicating otherwise. "I've just rung for more tea. You will join us, won't you?"

"No. I am here at the behest of the viscount, Serah Hawke."

"Oh? Have all the couriers and messengers gone missing?"

"I am here at the behest of the viscount, Serah Hawke," he repeated, his voice becoming cooler. She was only sorry she hadn't a chisel with which to break the ice that clung to his words.

"Yes, yes, I believe we heard you the first time. But why did he send - oh. Yes, of course. Let me just fetch my cloak. Boys, entertain the seneschal in my absence," she instructed and whisked out of the room, coming close enough to Bran to tread on his toe, a fate she felt he deserved for the tone of his voice.

She was supposed to have given the viscount a debriefing of the previous evening's events and had completely forgotten. Hardly surprising, all things considered, and she had no idea why Bran was so angry about it.

He was entirely too moody a man for his own good. Perhaps he was regretting their kisses? Did he think she was entertaining his son in order to insinuate herself into his life? The idea was laughable and ludicrous and would not leave once it had settled into her brain. Bad enough she never quite knew what he thought of her on a good day, worse somehow to know there were few of those.

Perhaps if she understood her own attraction to the man it would help. She pushed a small, sharp knife into her reticule and tied her cloak into place with a sigh. He was vexatious and maddening; he rarely smiled or said a kind word. There were times his voice was so disdainful she wanted to box his ears or stab him with any pointy object at hand. What had happened to make him thusly? Had he always been that way? She couldn't imagine that to be true as her mother referred to him as both a scalawag and a scamp but neither moniker seemed apropos for the man he had become. Why had he changed?

She couldn't remember if he'd ever truly complimented her and he had made a bet to tame her, which was not something she felt she was in need of. He was precise and pedantic, mordant at times and aggravating in ways she couldn't enumerate for lack of time.

Yet, he was extremely intelligent, articulate, handsome and had come to her rescue without thought for his own safety. His kisses made her bones melt and she thoroughly enjoyed their verbal jousting. She felt like they were equals but wasn't sure equals in what precisely. The more she searched for a logical answer to her feelings, the less she understood.

The previous night, sitting in the laboratory, his lips pressed to hers, regardless of the others around, she had wanted to push him away and tell him that he couldn't just assume she'd wanted his advances. Not that she'd had time. Or even truly wanted to, but it simply didn't matter because no sooner had she gathered her wits than he'd stood, nodded once to Aveline and left with a stern warning to be in the viscount's office by nine bells.

The unvarnished truth was that she loved him and had no idea why. Carefully closing the door on both her admission and her room, she made her way downstairs, determined not to say a word about her feelings, which would, no doubt, be made easier by his coldly reproving attitude.

Keir and Saemus were nodding at something Bran had said but as soon as she entered, he turned and placed his hand under her elbow, escorting her out of her own home like she was an unwanted guest.

She balked, stubbornly planting her feet in place. "You cannot treat me with so heavy a hand, Bran Drummond. I am not some recalcitrant child that needs to be dragged along the streets because she is causing a scene!"

A sleek auburn brow rose. "Indeed, Serah Hawke? Then what, precisely, _are_ you doing?"

"If, in the course of our discourse, it should be brought to your attention that I detest you, please take it to heart," she uttered, and, head held at a haughty angle, she made her way briskly to the keep.

Upon entering the viscount's office, she discovered that she had forgotten the reason for her ill-humor somewhere along the way and greeted the viscount with bright good cheer. "Your Grace, I am all that is contrite!"

The viscount replied, his voice stern, "There are few in this city who would dare to miss an appointment with the viscount, Lady Grace. I trust you have a reason for such a breach in comportment?" Despite the stern timbre of his voice, his eyes were alight with humor.

"I was entertaining your son, Viscount Dumar, and, as he is as charming as his father, I simply lost track of the time. I humbly beg your pardon, my lord and await any censure you deem worthy of so great an offense."

The viscount waved her to a seat. "That young man is keeping better company, I see. I had thought to send him to stay with Keir and the Drummonds in Tantervale until the Qunari business is settled. What say you?"

Surprised to be in the viscount's confidence, Grace blurted honestly, "I wouldn't mind sending Mother as well. There will be trouble between the radical Andrastians and the Qunari."

"Maker save me from zealots," he agreed. "You are aware that I spoke with Grand Cleric Elthina on the matter of Mother Petrice? She suggested I make mention of it to Knight Commander Meredith, as well. It seems Mother Petrice's guardian is a templar of intemperate opinions who believes the few converts the Qunari have managed to sway to the Qun are a threat to humanity. She was not disposed to favor such a discussion and assured me that I had much more pressing matters than a templar and priest who feared for the salvation of those who converted to the Qun."

"I did warn you, Your Grace," interposed Bran. Grace shot him a withering look which did not appear to disturb him in the least.

"Yes, you did, Bran, as was your duty. However, even I must take a stand at some point, and I cannot deny the tensions that are simmering in this city," the viscount replied and turned to her again before continuing. "Tell me, Grace, what would you suggest? You have at least spoken to the Arishok, who must have deemed you worthy of his attention. Will you assist this office again?"

She wanted to tell him no, that she was neither a politician nor a strategist and that she had no business acting as an advisor to the Viscount of Kirkwall, but she found herself pondering the question with an eye to consenting.

"I will be honored to assist, Your Grace. I recommend arranging a meeting with the Arishok to discuss the matter of the Viddathari."

"Viddathari?" he asked, frowning.

"Viddathari, if I remember correctly, are converts to the Qun," Bran answered shortly.

"As I have no idea how I view such conversions, your attendance at the meeting will be most appreciated, Grace, and I will be in your debt."

She gave an evil sounding laugh, rubbing her hands together. "Then my nefarious plan to usurp your office is working," she teased, standing, her good humor restored.

"There are more days than not that I would happily allow such a usurpation. Now, judging by the glower on my seneschal's face, one of us has landed in the suds again."

"Without intending offense, Your Grace, I hope it is you," she replied, walking to the door.

"Hope is the worst of all evils, as it merely prolongs man's torments," Bran intoned.

Grace wanted to ignore the grim words but found she was unable to. "Never deny a person hope, it may be all they wear," she replied with a wink and a broad grin.

"Touché," the viscount applauded, smiling. "You two are very well matched."

"And you are as transparent as a window pane," the seneschal muttered as he left.

"Will you deny it?" the viscount asked, turning to her.

"A lady never reveals such things, Your Grace," she replied and followed Bran to his office.

"I want to know why you kiss me in one breath and push me away with the next," she said as soon as the door to Bran's office shut behind her. Arms folded tightly, she watched him closely as he prepared to deny her observation.

"Do not even think to lie, Branagh Drummond," she added, as surprised as he was by the heat in her voice.

"Now is hardly the time for a personal discussion."

"As we never seem to have personal discussions, I am left to wonder when such a time will present itself."

A weary sigh escaped the seneschal and he waved her to a seat, which she refused with a quick shake of her head. "Has it occurred to you, Serah Hawke, that we are as disparate as is humanly possible?"

"Truly? You lead me on because we are dissimilar?"

"I do not lead you on. You make me sound the veriest rake," he protested.

"Would that you were!" she cried in frustration. "At least then I would understand my place in your life!" she continued tartly, taking a step towards him, only to have him retreat a step. Don't move again, she told herself, angry that he had edged away.

"And, just so we are clear on the matter, you do, in point of fact, lead me on! Or is it your contention that kissing is a hitherto unknown activity one pursues simply to pronounce disinterest in a person?" she asked, stepping closer despite her silent admonition not to after his earlier reaction.

He sighed again, a sound of defeat that should have made her smile but only served to anger her. "You cannot possibly understand how little you do to warrant my affections," she hissed and, turning on her heel, marched out of the office, head held impossibly high until she narrowly avoided a collision with a guard who was scurrying along the corridor like a mouse in search of cheese. Pride did, indeed, goeth before a fall, she thought, thankful to have avoided such a situation.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Three hours later, having met with Fenris for an intense sparring session followed by lunch with her mother and Merrill, Grace, wearing a new walking dress of dark blue taffeta, trimmed in silver braid and ivory lace, stepped out of the Amell Mansion. Merrill at her side, they made their way to the Hightown Market. They were on their way to have several new gowns made for Merrill, much to the young Dalish woman's delight. Leandra had taken the Dalish First under her wing and the other companions were making book on who would be "Leandracized" next.

As they strolled along the sidewalk, arms linked, Merrill chattered on and on about the weather, the other members of their group and then casually mentioned a desire to visit her clan. Naturally, she wanted Grace to accompany her and, as the clan was currently at Sundermount - which was not exactly a pleasant day's stroll - it meant the others would have to accompany them as well.

Grace promised to arrange a trip soon, explaining that she had several other responsibilities to attend to first. It was only her distraction at being unable to say no to her friend that led her to come face to face with Aubrey Pentaghast, a man she had spent the past several days assiduously avoiding. Apparently all those machinations had been for naught as it was as plain as a pikestaff that she was not where his interest lay, and it was amusing in the extreme to realize it was Merrill who had caught the rake's eye.

"Lady Grace, it is my great pleasure to see you," Lord Aubrey contended, sweeping a bow in her direction.

Reluctantly releasing Merrill's arm to curtsy, Grace nodded absently. "Lord Aubrey, I had thought you were in Ostwick securing more trading routes," she lied smoothly. "You remember my dear friend, Merrill?"

Turning his charm on Merrill, he swept her an equally elegant bow. "Upon my honor, this day is made lovelier by your company, Lady Merrill," he greeted.

It was all Grace could do not to roll her eyes and snort as he was truly laying it on thick and seemed completely unaware that they weren't taken in by his nattering. Or she wasn't. Glancing at a blushing Merrill, she thought she should warn her friend that his flattery was empty and meaningless, cultivated at a young age and falling from his lips with practiced ease. The thought made her angrier still at Bran. A week ago, she would have gone out of her way to spend time in handsome Aubrey Pentaghast's company. Now she found it intolerable.

"Sadly, we were on our way for a fitting at Madame Pelletier's, Lord Aubrey, and are unable to remain in your most agreeable company," she said, appalled that her voice reflected all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. She had finally learned to sound like the nobles and she wondered if it was too late to unlearn.

"Ah, then allow me to walk with you. I am meeting a fellow countryman at Messeres Abercrombie and Fitch. They have acquired a new shipment of Antivan leather boots."

"Lovely. Shall we, then?"

He offered each woman an arm and continued to prattle on in the most beef-witted manner. Merrill was encouraging him, fascinated, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink and her flustered responses adorable. Grace made a mental note to have a serious talk with Merrill about vain young men and then nearly wept at how old and _staid_ that thought made her feel.

Handsome was too weak a word to describe the young man waiting outside Abercrombie and Fitch's shop. He was tall and possessed of a strong chin, square and chiseled. His eyes were a dark green hazel and his hair, perfectly coifed in a fashionable cut, was a lovely shade of honey. His smile was dimpled, his expression kind and his manner unassuming.

"This is Lord Rafael Van Markham. Rafe, this is Lady Grace Hawke and her companion, Lady Merrill of the Dalish."

The man bowed politely. "For once you didn't exaggerate when you told me of Lady Grace's uncommon beauty," the man said, and had the remark come from anyone else she would have snorted her disbelief, but he sounded completely sincere.

It could only be assumed the man needed a pince-nez and she made a mental note to ask Bran where he could be directed for such an item. The thought brought a smile to her countenance. His outrage at such a question would make any sharp set-downs worth it.

"How very kind of you, Lord Rafael, you've put me to the blush," Grace said, feeling ridiculous as she gave the customary reply to such a compliment.

"A most becoming color, I assure you, Lady Grace."

"Yoohoo! Lord Aubrey!" Babette De Launcet cooed from across the cobbled street.

The shudder was involuntary on her part, and she assumed on the part of the men present, as well. With a farewell made brief in the face of the oncoming disaster named Babette, Grace pulled Merrill into the mantua-maker's shop and was greeted by Madame Pelletier herself.

Still, Grace found her eyes drawn to the handsome young man standing beside Aubrey, only to feel guilty for admiring him. _Damn Bran Drummond to the Void! _

She was grateful that the evening would find her at the Rusty Cock for the weekly gathering and she vowed, as she stood in her shift a short time later being stuck with pins and pinched and pulled, that she would enjoy the most expensive whiskey the establishment offered upon her arrival.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Isabela had left early, claiming a need for whiskey. Fenris and Anders had joined her, proclaiming their intent to act as protection. From what, they couldn't say. Grace longed to join them but had promised to walk Merrill home first.

Finally, she, Varric and Sebastian set off. A raucous crowd greeted their entrance at the Rusty Cock. As soon as the door opened, Varric met Grace's look with barely concealed glee, his voice dripping smugness. "I told you she'd perform that one sooner or later, Hawke. You owe me."

Sebastian pushed his way through the patrons, broad shoulders leaving a cleared path for the other two to follow. Grace wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to become part of the regular weekly outing, but he'd fit in surprisingly, _disturbingly_, well, especially considering his current residence was a house of the Maker and his favorite song was the Chant of Light.

Standing on the bar, long legs displayed to great advantage, Isabela was singing, her husky voice no doubt driving many a man, and not a few ladies, wild. Grace, while tall by some standards, was not tall enough to see over the heads and shoulders of the group of whistling, stomping men that had gathered around the impromptu act. Without a word, Sebastian and Anders lifted Grace onto a nearby table that wobbled ever so slightly.

Isabela was singing with great flair, tossing her head coquettishly at the crowd, batting her eyelashes and enjoying herself immensely. Grace could only applaud her enthusiasm and style as she listened to the chanteuse.

"_It's not so much a question of not knowing what to do, I've known what's right from wrong since I was ten," _Isabela sang, hands on her knees as she wiggled her hips and posterior with saucy delight. The crowd roared its approval.

In his enthusiasm for the show, one of the men bumped Grace's table, which teetered and tottered, before finally tipping, sending her feet out from under her. With a shriek of surprise, she fell only to find herself caught by Sebastian, who, with a most unflattering _oomph,_ went stumbling backwards into the foot-stomping, boisterous crowd.

She missed whatever Isabela sang next, the pirate's voice lost in the general din as the men around Sebastian slapped him on the back and made thoroughly inappropriate and lewd remarks about what the chantry brother should do with the woman in his arms. Grace could feel the blaze of his blush and a moment's flicker of sympathy came over her before she sternly shushed everyone in favor of listening to Isabela, content enough to stay in Sebastian's arms for the remainder of the song.

Flamboyantly blowing Fenris a kiss, Isabela continued:

"_When a person tries to kiss a girl  
I'm told she ought to give his face a smack!  
But as soon as someone kisses me,  
I really want to throw him on his back!"_

Another roar of approval rose from the men and the cheers continued until Isabela deftly curtsied, before continuing on:  
_  
"I'm just a fool when lights are low,  
I can't be prissy and quaint,  
I'm not the type that can faint,  
I'm not a bleedin' saint!  
I can't say no!"_

Isabela paused and surveyed the crowd, her eyes lighting up when she spotted Grace. "Come join me, Hawke!"

Grace laughed, shaking her head. The crowd took up a chant of "Hawke! Hawke!" and before she knew it, she was being unceremoniously passed through the crowd like a sack of grain.

Isabela helped her stand on the bar and then looked out at the crowd with a wink. "Look at Granny Grace, all prim and proper! Bet _she_ can say no!"

Good-natured laughter followed and Grace, glancing down at her dark blue dress with a shrug, lifted her skirts a few inches, swirling them around playfully and showing a pair of silk-clad ankles. The crowd stamped and shouted for more but Grace merely gave them a prim and proper smile.

"Oh yes, she definitely says no!" Isabela teased with a toss of her mane. She turned to Grace and wagged a finger at her before continuing her song.

"_Whatcha gonna do when a guy gets flirty__  
__And starts to talk dirty,__  
__Whatcha gonna do?__  
__Supposin' that he says __  
__That your lips are like cherries,__  
__Or roses, or berries__  
__Whatcha gonna do?"_

Grace feigned a yawn as Isabela continued.

_"Supposin' that he says  
That you're sweeter than cream __  
__and he's gotta have cream or die?"_

Isabela spun around and shook her head at Grace. "Well? Watcha gonna do?" she challenged.

Grace shrugged, winking at the group. "Spit in his eye?" she offered to the unanimous approval of the crowd.

Isabela gasped, eyes wide in imagined shock, then she leaned close, pretending to whisper something, exaggerating every gesture. Grace allowed herself to look momentarily embarrassed before returning Isabela's saucy grin with one of her own. With a nod, she raised her skirt to just below her knees, swishing the material playfully before dropping the skirt once more. Isabela flung an arm around her shoulders and the two women broke into song, Grace's a perfect imitation of the Rivaini pirate.

"_We're just the girls who can't say no,  
Adventure's our favorite thing.  
We kiss as good as we sing,  
We so adore a quick fling!  
We can't say no!"_

Thunderous applause greeted the end of their song and many a man offered their assistance in helping both Grace and Isabela down from the bar. One hand, in particular, caught Grace's eye and she allowed her gaze to rest on the owner of said hand.

"Good evening, Seneschal Bran. Have you come to tell me my lips are like cherries?" she asked with a grin.

"I am not, in fact, here to tell you such codswallop, Serah Hawke," he replied coolly, but his eyes traveled to her lips and a gleam of something very much like desire flashed in his eyes.

"Are you here to chide me for coming to a den of iniquity?" she queried.

"I am not, in fact, here to chide you for finding entertainment in the Rusty Cock."

While the opportunity of such an unfortunate phrasing presented itself in her head, she bit back her ready response and continued formally, "Then why, pray tell, are you here, Seneschal Bran?"

She took the proffered hand and jumped down to land lightly on her feet beside her tormenter. She was close enough to smell the sandalwood of his soap and she noted, with no small amount of glee, that a pulse was beating rapidly in the hollow at the base of his throat.

"For reasons that are incomprehensible and inconceivable, and to my utter bafflement, I cannot seem to stay away."

His voice was pitched low and a note of distress ran as an undercurrent, as if he'd discovered he had an incurable disease. The sentiment expressed, in such a tone, should have infuriated her, and months ago it would have, and, while she was tempted to ring a peal over his head for his unflattering remark, she found she had nothing to say. Instead, she waited for a further admission from him, the drone of the crowd fading. When none was forthcoming, she turned and began to push her way through the crowds.

"Serah Hawke!"

She found she quite liked the hint of panic in his voice and continued to make her way through the knot of men, many of whom she knew by name and she greeted them cheerfully as she continued on.

Once outside the Rusty Cock, she waited, a smile quirking her lips. The door opened, a rush of noise filtering out, and quickly lost again as the door closed. "What an extraordinary surprise to meet you in such a place, Seneschal Bran," she greeted cordially when he emerged from the building.

"If you have even the slightest sympathy for me at all, Serah Hawke, tell me that you have no interest in me."

"If that was an attempt at wooing me, it failed miserably."

In the flickering light from the streetlamps, his face took on a grim determination. "I have no intention of wooing you, Serah Hawke."

Raising a brow, she stepped closer. "Indeed? Yet you admit you cannot seem to stay away. Should we just fall into the nearest bed and make passionate love in the hope that you no longer have such botherations?"

"Do not make light of this situation, Serah Hawke."

She gritted her teeth and it took her a moment to unclench them long enough to speak. "If you call me Serah Hawke in that abominable way of yours just once more, I will make you extremely sorry you ever clapped eyes on me," she assured him tightly.

"Serah Hawke," he pronounced and she cut him off, her lips claiming his in a kiss that was admittedly more teeth than lip. His hands fell to her arms, gripping them tightly and before she had time to think, she was pinned against the wall of the Rusty Cock, a moan wrenched from her.

"Again," she whispered, fingers tightening in his hair and yanking. A low growl escaped his throat.

"Serah Hawke," he whispered against her ear before tracing it with his tongue and nipping at the lobe. She forgot how to breathe and his hands moved from her arms to trace the contours of her waist and then up, his thumbs brushing lightly across her nipples.

"Shall I stop, Serah Hawke?" he asked, his voice husky and barely controlled.

"No."

The problem, they discovered rather quickly, was that they had nowhere private to go. Her mother was at home with Lady Portensia Sandhurst and Countess Aurelia DuPont for an evening of gossip, his son had invited Saemus over for an evening of chess.

"My office," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck.

He fumbled with the key when they arrived and, after glancing up and down the corridor to ensure they were alone, she leaned in to trace the shell of his ear with her tongue. He dropped the key with a muttered curse.

"Ah, there you are, Bran. I have a rare bottle of – Maker, is that you Grace?"

"Not this time," Bran muttered, seemingly to himself, before raising his voice. "Go away, Marlowe."

"Who am I to deny young love?"

The door swung open in that moment and both Grace and Bran tumbled into the seneschal's office, falling to the floor and lying there clinging to each other, laughing. Grace thought they had spent more time falling onto each other, into each other and on the floor than was healthy, but she kept the thought to herself as Bran kicked the door shut in the viscount's face.

"I have lost, have I not, Serah Hawke?" he whispered before capturing her lips with his and exploring them with savage interest. Her breath escaped on a low mewling sound, her fingers plucking at his doublet.

It took a moment for her to realize he expected an answer. She paused in the pursuit of his lips, grinning like a daft peagoose. His hair was a mess, his clothes askew and his eyes were smoldering with lust.

"Who am I to say no?" Grace replied, pulling him down for another kiss.

**A/N:** _Thank you, Lisa, for your beta touch. As always, you help shape the story and make me feel competent at the same time!  
The song at the Rusty Cock is sung to the tune of "Cain't Say No," a song from the musical _**Oklahoma**_**. **I did warn you, Ole! _  
_My deepest thanks to all those reading, favoriting, following and reviewing! Your encouragement is very much appreciated!_


	15. Pride and Pugilists

**A/N: **_First, thank you, Lisa, for your beta help and excellent suggestions. You are a light in the darkness. _  
_Secondly, I apologize for the delay...company, a trip out of town and a long illness (Fie upon thee, illness, even now you persist!) conspired to keep me from reading, reviewing and writing. Hopefully I'm back on track now. Thank you for your patience!_

**Pride and Pugilists**

"Never again," Bran muttered darkly. "Maker's teeth! Never again."

Grace raised an eyebrow, one of the few things she was wearing, and stared at the seneschal, who was struggling into his clothes with unseemly haste. She bit back a snicker as he nearly fell to the floor, both feet apparently finding the same leg of his trousers.

"Forsooth! Ever shall we seek the comfort of feathers and four posts," she concurred with theatrical verve, a hand to her brow.

Silence fell and it occurred to Grace that they may have been speaking about unrelated subjects. From the look that graced his handsome countenance, she knew she was correct as they were both waiting for the other to explain their meaning. Then, as if prompted by an unknown force, they both spoke at once.

"What are you talking about?"

"This is hardly the time for such theatrics. What are you on about?"

There was another pause as they warily eyed the other. Once again, by apparent tacit consent, they spoke in unison.

"Letting my emotions overrule my better judgment," Bran sighed, finally hurling the offending pants across the room in a fit of pique over their recalcitrant nature in wanting to be worn.

"Making love on a floor. I believe you need a settee in your office. Or at least thicker carpets." Grace ruined any hope of being taken seriously when she snickered, her eyes tracking the trajectory of the trousers. No need to remind him that it was not _emotion _that had overruled his better judgment; it was the same appendage that even now seemed to have a will of its own.

With a low growl, he sank down beside her, his eyes taking on an almost feral gleam that made Grace's heart race around her chest in a frenzy of lust. He leaned his head close to whisper, "There are always my chair and d – "

"Demons above!" a deep voice exclaimed on the other side of the door. To their horror, Grace and Bran watched the door handle rattle. "Bran, have you seen this article in the Kirkwall Crier? What do they mean I'm ineffectual? Hello, what's this? Your door seems to be stuck. Oh! Ooooh! Oh my, you aren't still _entertaining_, are you?" the viscount continued, obviously oblivious to the situation on the other side of the door.

Bran's eyebrows shot up to disappear in his tousled hair. He scrabbled across the floor to his pants and wrestled with them again, this time victorious … much to Grace's disappointment. He was trim and well formed, and his posterior was all that was pinchable.

"Certainly not," Bran answered the viscount, his voice the very model of offended sensibilities as he began to lace his doublet. Grace, standing in her altogether, reached out to assist him in his endeavor only to be pulled into his arms for a fierce – if hasty – kiss. "Dress, woman," he whispered with only a hint of a plea in his tone as he stepped away from her, carefully combing his fingers through his tumbled auburn locks.

With a long-suffering sigh, and many a tragic glance cast in Bran's direction, Grace scooped up her clothes and began to dress, wincing as she realized a rather large bruise had formed on her hip. "Brute," she uttered quietly. He traced the shape with a light finger, looking somewhat sheepish, which made him appear ridiculously boyish, a most unusual look for him. She allowed herself a low chuckle, which was louder than intended, and then clapped a hand over her mouth, but to no avail.

"Grace Hawke! Your mother will be worried sick!" the viscount gasped through the oak door that separated them, clearly scandalized.

Dropping her skirts, she glanced at Bran, who was assiduously avoiding her gaze. "Grace isn't here, Your Grace!" she cried out with another chuckle. "But if you would permit us five minutes?"

"Oh, of course," he allowed graciously and she heard the quick tattoo of his retreat.

"It would behoove you to behave in a manner befitting the importance of your station," Bran remarked in a reproving tone that clearly called for eye-rolling and head-shaking, but she did neither. Instead, she turned her back to him and held her ragged braid out of the way. His fingers tickled along her spine as he began to hook the back of her gown, allowing his lips to rest briefly on the nape of her neck, clearly as reluctant as she was to part. That knowledge played havoc with her heartbeat.

"We must discuss this at some point," he declared in serious tones as she slipped first one shoe on and then the other.

"Indeed, Seneschal Bran, but perhaps later. It would ill-_behoove_ you to keep the viscount waiting. You may be called on the carpet," she retorted with a grin, adding, "as thin as it is."

A censorious frown found its way to his face. She glared at him, hoping he would wither under the heat of it, but he remained cool and slightly aloof, as if he had already donned his role as seneschal again.

"Shall I put myself on your calendar? Stop by your amanuensis and have him set up an appointment?" she asked with enough sarcasm that even he could not fail to notice it.

"Serah Hawke," he warned, his voice pitched low and husky.

Goosebumps, under cover of her sleeves, danced up and down her arms but she kept her expression impassive. "That was effective earlier, Seneschal Bran, but do not think to use it as a distraction at every opportunity."

He smiled, a brief flash of white teeth and then it was gone, but his frown had been unseated and she returned his smile, allowing hers to remain with the expectation that his would reappear. When it didn't, she moved to the door and unlocked it.

"Tonight?" he asked quietly, the aloof mask slipping around the edges and Grace became aware of an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach. "Perhaps dinner with my son?"

"Dinner? Son? That sounds dreadfully serious, Seneschal Bran. Are you sure you're ready for that?" she teased.

"More so than another night fumbling in the dark and acquiring carpet burns, Serah Hawke," he replied with a flickering smile that disappeared before she had time to appreciate it.

"I suppose your son will be an adequate chaperon," she concurred before slipping into the hallway and making her way out of the keep, hurrying past the viscount's open door with nary a glance in his direction. She was sure she hadn't heard the sound of the viscount's laughter on her way by.

Sunrise was hours away and the moon still hung low and heavy in the cloud-trimmed sky. "You're out late, Grace," one of the guards hailed as she stood on the top step of the keep.

"Rupert," she greeted with a grin. "I see you are still relegated to the night shift. Did I not warn you that Captain Aveline detested obsequious toads?"

"Aye, you did that, Grace," he agreed with a gloomy sigh. "Serves me bloody well right for not listening."

The other guard, Murdoch, an unfortunate fellow with a lazy eye and a speech impediment, spoke up. "Therveth uth both wight," he agreed glumly. "Gwathe wath thmart enough to warn uth and we were too thupid to lithen."

She couldn't tell, in the moonlight, if Murdoch was looking at her or Rupert, or perhaps both, considering his eye, so she smiled somewhere in the middle. "I'll talk to her tomor… today, boys, not to worry."

A brisk walk later, she eased into the mansion, tip-toed up the stairs and moments later fell asleep, grateful for the soft mattress.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Darling, look at you, well laid … out and ready for a massage. Did we have an appointment?" Serendipity teased, her husky laughter trailing behind her as she moved about the room gathering several small pots of emollients.

"We didn't, but Brother Carbuncle had a sudden call to Lowtown on some mission of great significance, so I assured Madame Lusine that I would happily take his appointment."

Another husky laugh followed Grace's words. "It's Carmichael, not Carbuncle, and nothing in Lowtown is of consequence. Ever."

"Oh? I wonder how he came by the notion that it was of vital importance."

Grace pondered the merits of batting her eyelashes to bolster her look of innocence but closed her eyes instead, sighing with relief as Serendipity's firm fists began to slug aching muscles. Or perhaps it only felt thusly. Perhaps it was simply her fingers kneading at the knots.

"Your muscles are as tight as a dwarf's purse-strings, Grace. What have you been up to?"

"How unkind of you to adopt such a suspicious attitude. I believe you have given offense with such a rag-mannered approach. Yes, I've examined my feelings and they are, indeed, offended."

Serendipity, digging an elbow into the muscles below Grace's right shoulder blade, gave an undignified and uncharacteristic snort. "Darling, if you haven't been offended by Dulci De Launcet's constant sniping at you and your mother, I can't imagine my question would send you up into the boughs."

"As to – ouch! As to that, I have considered her sniping as nothing more than the ranting of a woman in the throes of palliative poisoning."

"No wonder the comte is visiting here more frequently and I heard that her daughter, Babette, is following in her mother's esteemed footsteps, although I suspect Fifi is a closet tippler."

Several moments of agonizing bliss followed as Serendipity worked on loosening the coil of knotted muscles in Grace's lower back. "What have you heard about Seneschal Bran?" Grace asked, instilling an air of disinterest in her voice.

There was a long pause as Serendipity continued massaging. "With regard to the viscount? Only that should Meredith take a stronger aversion to the viscount there will be two gentlemen out of jobs. It seems the knight-commander doesn't appreciate the viscount speaking directly to Grand Cleric Elthina."

A breath rushed out of Grace, one of relief that there were no gossipmongers prattling on about Grace and Bran's midnight tryst. She responded quietly, but with no lack of disdain, "Had she not neglected to watch over her flock of mothers and the templars assigned to guard them she wouldn't have need of empty threats. She chose to ignore a problem, the viscount decided to act upon it. One can hardly fault him."

"La, di, da, Mistress Grace, how top lofty and noble a sentiment. One would almost believe you, if not for the other rumor."

"Other rumor?"

"Oh yes, such a mingle mangle, my dear. Something about you spending the night with Bran…naughty woman."

Grace groaned. "Don't tell me that's already common knowledge? It just occurred this past evening and it was a mere hour or two!" she protested, not about to pretend ignorance or innocence in the matter to the woman who could snap her neck should she be so inclined.

"Then it's true? Well, well, isn't Branagh Drummond the naughty seneschal," Serendipity replied approvingly. "I had given up hope in that area. And you, you saucy thing, how did it come about?"

"How did it come about?" Grace repeated with a mischievous grin. "You make it seem as if we'd decided to take the curative waters at Wycome," she added, her smirk easing into a ripple of laughter.

"Trust me, you have no idea the number of wagers in this city over who would break first…the seneschal or Saint Sebastian."

"You're gammoning me, aren't you? Saint Sebastian wouldn't break – and break what? Are you implying that the seneschal took a vow of chastity?" Grace demanded, her voice rising to a squeak as Serendipity pummeled her lower back with a set of razor-sharp elbows.

"My dear, I do not gammon."

"Such faradiddle! You are a champion of gammoning ... and bamboozlement, come to that."

Massaging lilac-scented oil into Grace's neck, Serendipity was quiet for several moments and Grace found it impossible to do more than moan with pleasure as tight muscles uncoiled.

"Judging from the knots in your muscles, I would put paid to the rumors that claim you used his office for your liaison."

"You failed to answer my question regarding the seneschal's vow."

"He swore never to take a woman to his bed again, so I suppose he hasn't broken that vow, if you did, as the state of your muscles would indicate, use his office floor."

Looking over her shoulder, Grace shot the masseuse a ferocious glare. "Was it my fault that he has no settee or divan in his office?"

Laughter erupted from Serendipity and the elf put aside the jar of lilac balm in favor of ringing for tea. Grace, pulling the sheet around her, rolled over and sat up, refusing to waste another glare on the woman, preferring to hold herself in regal indifference instead.

As soon as Serendipity's laughter had been reined in, Grace asked the only question her brain seemed able to form. "Why would the seneschal make such a vow?"

"Oh, you'd love it if I told you all the dirty little details, wouldn't you?" the elf challenged, eyes alight.

Grace frowned, wondering if the question was as obvious as it sounded or if there was some hidden nuance or agenda that she was unaware of. "Yes, actually, I would consider it a most fortuitous event should you relate each detail, no matter how small."

"Of course you would and I would be more than happy to do so about anyone else. But not Bran. If you want to know, ask him."

"You horrible little tease, you!"

Serendipity grinned. "I am, indeed, paid quite well on occasion to be a tease, a coquette, a wanton."

Grace's frown dipped, then disappeared in favor of a snicker. "You know very well what I mean, Serah Serendipity."

"I do, darling, but you'll get no more from me."

And she clung to her conviction like a revered mother to her prayer book. Grace dressed and was about to leave when the tea tray was brought in and Serendipity insisted she stay. She gratefully accepted the brandy laced tea.

"Do you love him?"

Without clear intent, Grace's tea arced from her mouth to splatter Serendipity's gaily colored frock. "You've no right to inquire about my feelings, nor will I satisfy your curiosity, as you have so cruelly refused to sate mine," she responded once she had finished choking. She handed her serviette to the masseuse and watched as the woman dabbed at the spots, frowning slightly as she considered Serendipity's question.

Did she love him? Her heart had decided she had, but they seemed an unlikely pair. Ha! Unlikely? Implausible? Without question. Impossible, mayhap. Impracticable, most definitely. She was, as her mother - not to mention half the city – delighted in reminding her, a hedonist, a hoyden, a ragamuffin. Her life was uncomplicated by grand passions and all the ensuing drama such a state incurred. She loved making him smile, she loved the censorious frown and the unexpected flare of desire in his eyes, the wonderful richness of his language and expressions, but the entire package?

What did she know about love, really? Yet there was no denying her attraction to him, for all that she couldn't comprehend it. He was high in the instep, prickly as a hedgehog, cool and aloof, maddening in his ability to make her feel gauche. But, he had only to touch her to have her become warm and willing. He had only to flash a hint of a smile for her to want to let her fingers drift through his thick auburn hair. That sounded more like lust to her. But yes, damn his miserable hide, she did, in fact, love him.

"Most telling, Grace. If you didn't love him, your denouncement would have been quick and concise. This attempt not to answer did, indeed, answer the question quite clearly."

"Botheration! No good can come from loving a man who vows chastity and therefore I will not," Grace determined, setting her tea cup down. A look at the masseuse told her she didn't believe such twaddle either.

"Nonsense! Didn't he already break those vows?" Serendipity teased.

A short time later, having been rebuffed at every turn in discovering the reason for his now broken vow, Grace took her leave, walking along the sun-washed cobblestones and greeting those passersby who greeted her. Which were surprisingly few. In fact, she believed that several women had crossed the broad avenue to avoid her.

Obviously she was now a soiled dove in the eyes of some of the Hightown High Steppers. As if each of their lives didn't have any bumblebroths, scandals or skeletons attached, she thought with a mental snort of derision. Only pride kept her from crossing to them and giving them a few choice words.

Turning, she climbed the steps to Viscount's Keep and tried to ignore the snicker from the helmeted guards. She wound her way back to Aveline's office, where Varric was trying once again to bribe Aveline into turning a blind eye to Fenris's squatting in a a Hightown mansion.

"Just the people I was looking for," she said by way of greeting. "Aveline, are you ever going to forgive Rupert and Murdoch?"

Easing herself into a chair near the guard captain's desk, she met Aveline's direct gaze. "You couldn't take it somewhere else, Hawke? You had to bring scandal to Viscount's Keep?"

The tone was baldly disapproving with no attempt at disguising it as a polite inquiry. Grace's temperature rose but she gripped her hands, determined not to lose her temper, to answer sweetly and without malice. "At least I act on my desires, Lady Repressed," she retorted. She noticed that Varric sat up, a smirk appearing on his lips. She glared at him and his smirk broadened into a grin.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Aveline demanded, standing up with such force that her chair turned over. She placed her palms down on the desk, loomed over it and glared at Grace.

"Yeah, Hawke, what's that supposed to mean?" Varric encouraged, his grin irrepressible.

"Don't you start, Varric," Aveline warned without taking her eyes off Grace.

"What did I do?" Varric asked, widening his eyes.

"I mean that if you would just take Donnic off to a broom closet and play slap and tickle you wouldn't be such a morose, moralizing muttonhead."

"Morose? Bollocks! Just because I take a bit of pride in my behavior? Because I tell myself _no_ instead of jumping on the first floor that presents itself?"

"I deny myself quite frequently, Aveline. In point of fact, right now I'm denying myself the pleasure of my fist meeting with your iron jaw of rigid virtuousness. In point of fact, I am denying myself the pleasure of going and finding Donnic and a broom closet myself."

She had not anticipated the ungauntleted fist to hurt quite as much as it did. Grace went down for the count, her left eye very unhappy with her mouth and Aveline's fist. Varric had his journal out, a black-lead pencil in his hand. He was scribbling furiously.

"Oh Hawke! I – " Aveline began and then righted her chair before sinking into it, her head in her hands.

"No, no! Stay there. I am quite happy here on the floor. Nursing my bruised and battered body," Grace ground out.

"I – I'm not like you, Grace. I have principles. And pride. And position."

"And a damned cold bed, I should imagine."

"Ouch. Hawke fires across the bow!" Varric interjected.

"Even if I do feel something for Donnic, he can't possibly feel anything for me," Aveline continued, ignoring Varric's bait. Grace bent her head, not so much to hide her smile, although it was hidden, but because the bright lights were bothering her eyes. Aveline had planted her a facer, no doubt about it. She thought her eye might be swelling.

"You have got to be kidding. I knew you were prideful but not willful. At least willfully blind. The man's eyes follow you as if he is a starving man and you are his roast mutton."

Varric snorted. "I suppose that makes sense, considering you called her a muttonhead earlier, but I'd be really pissed if I were you, Aveline."

"Varric, do you do anything? I mean besides stir up shit and then write about it?" Aveline asked through obviously gritted teeth, standing and stretching across the desk to help Grace to her feet.

"Madam, I'm wounded. Of course I do other things. Right now, as a matter of fact, I'm going on a quest in search of the perfect ale. Ladies," he added, tipping an imaginary hat as he hustled out the door.

"Just let Donnic know you're interested, Aveline. Smile at him, sway your hips a bit more when he's around. Laugh at his inane jokes. Put your hand on his arm when you talk. Lean on him occasionally."

"Act a whore, in other words?"

Grace raised a brow. "Is that what you think I am?" she asked, her voice dangerously low, unable to keep the hurt from her tone.

"What? No! Of course not. Well, perhaps, considering what you did in the seneschal's office was more than put your hand on his arm and coo at him. I can't behave the wanton like you, Grace, I have my reputation to consider."

"Why, you judgmental, didactical moralizing harridan! If your head weren't already so far up your arse, I'd personally shove it there," Grace snarled, standing, her fingers itching to curl into fists and connect with Aveline's jaw. Grace thought it only fair, after having been the recipient of Aveline's punch, and her right fist did so with alacrity.

She had no idea Aveline had a glass jaw.

Anders was sent for and the two women glared at each other as they waited, one nursing a battered eye that was rapidly swelling shut and one nursing a jaw that no longer functioned.

"Ah ah awee," Aveline tried to say. Grace glared out of her good eye.

"If that was an apology it was poorly worded."

Aveline had no trouble glaring at her. "Uh aw awe. Uh?" she persisted. Grace wiped the drool off Aveline's chin, finding it difficult to manage without depth perception. Her eye was now swollen shut.

The guardsman they had sent in search of Anders returned a short time later without the healer. "Couldn't find him, but no worries, Captain Vallen, I sent for the viscount's healer."

The ladies groaned in unison. Grace took herself away without further ado. The last thing she needed was that glass-eyed bellicose nanny goat wagging her finger and pontificating from on high about Grace's contretemps.

She stumbled down the steps of the keep and headed for home, convinced that Bodahn and her mother would be able to reduce the swelling. "Lady Grace! What has happened? What fiend has done this to you?"

Grace blinked, squinting up at the tall handsome man before her. "Good afternoon, Lord Aubrey. A fine day, is it not?" she asked with a warm smile just as rain began to weep from the dreary sky.

"Please, allow me to escort you home, Lady Grace, and then I will find the cur who would treat a woman so cruelly."

"No, no, I'm fine, truly."

"Pah! I know who did this to you. Everyone is talking of this man and your involvement with him. Only a beast, a baseborn, a dastard would treat a woman so. I cannot allow this to stand. Excuse me, my lady. You are home and under the protection of your dear mother. I shall call once this foul deed has been answered."

Her life had become a tawdry romance novel, Grace thought, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as the handsome gentleman bowed over her hand, his lips cool on her ungloved skin. She snatched her hand away and tried to glare at him but it hurt too much so she blinked instead, trying to bring him into focus.

"You mistake the matter," she began and he smiled knowingly. She wanted to box his ears for being deliberately obtuse.

"I shall return forthwith." And now he sounded like poor Murdoch.

She blinked again and leaned against the doorjamb, trying to find words that would stop him, only to find he was striding back down the street in the rain, his cape swirling behind him like the villain of a melodrama.

"Shit," she muttered inelegantly and started off after Aubrey. She was surprised to see him turn and enter the chantry's courtyard, running up the stairs as if they were nothing. Grace was panting like an out of shape racehorse by the time she reached the top.

Entering the church, she heard a _thwap_ followed by the sound of armor striking the ground. Sebastian groaned and she dropped down beside him, glaring up at Aubrey. "Have you lost the last feather in that head of yours? This is Saint Sebastian. He would no more hit a woman than a cow would dance the Minuet!" she exclaimed.

Sebastian's nose was a gusher, blood bubbling through his fingers and she added, with feeling, "And if you broke his wonderful beak of a nose I will personally return the favor, although it would be a shame to ruin your perfectly proportioned proboscis," she added with real regret as she stuffed her handkerchief into Sebastian's hands.

Tears were sliding down his cheeks and she wiped at them as well. "Do not stand there like the great looby you are, man! Fetch a healer, some ice and Grand Cleric Elthina!" she cried, settling Sebastian against the wall and forcing him to tilt his head back, wondering why her words had reminded her of a joke. She shook her head. Now was no time for levity. Or perhaps now was the perfect time. She sighed.

"But, my dearest lady, I had no idea! I feel terrible. Allow me to…" Aubrey began, stepping forward and slipping on the pool of blood.

He fell, knocking the wind from Grace as he landed on her. Only to be immediately pulled off her and sent flying, the sound of flesh and bone meeting yet again. She winced. Had that been a tooth she'd seen fly by? Surely not.

She thought she might just stay where she was, on the floor of the chantry with one eye swollen shut and her skirts stained and skewed, both Sebastian and Aubrey moaning into bloody handkerchiefs.

Bran, nursing his hand, where the bones appeared smashed, stared down at her, struggling to maintain his usual cool disdain and failing miserably. She wanted to wink, to snicker at him with his hair mussed and damp from the rain, his hand mangled and his pride in tatters. Instead she hoisted herself up and rearranged her skirts, distantly aware that her hair had finally escaped its braid in favor of tumbling like a chocolate waterfall, down her back.

"How lovely to see you, Seneschal Bran," she greeted affably, waving genially at her lover.

Her smile trembled at the edges, wobbled once and then righted itself and he returned it with a satisfied, rather smug one of his own. Stepping over a groaning Lord Aubrey, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow.

"I believe the grand cleric and knight commander are awaiting our arrival," he replied with his cool, proud haughtiness, escorting her out.

Later, she would claim that stepping on poor Lord Aubrey's undamaged hand had been an accident. For the moment she ignored his sharp gasp of pain, head held high as she sailed out of the room.


	16. The Pompatus of Love

**The Pompatus of Love**

"Well, that went brilliantly … if I do say so myself," Grace pronounced with the satisfied smile of a cat lapping cream from a gold-rimmed saucer.

"Indeed, Serah Hawke. In less than an hour you made the grand cleric appear weak-chinned and ineffectual, Mother Petrice seem as conniving and crafty as a fox and Meredith is, without doubt, irrevocably and utterly insane, just as you illustrated in your behavior towards her. And the ruler of our fair city? Well, Viscount Dumar, as you so adroitly conveyed, is the greatest imbecile to ever grace the office. In fact, given your latest performance, I am shocked beyond all measure that he has not elevated you to the position of Ambassador of Kirkwall," the man at her side remarked, irony rife in his tone.

"Why, Seneschal Bran, that is quite the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Grace replied, tilting her head at the man, offering a coquettish smile and a great fluttering of lashes. "You quite put me to the blush."

"Have you a cinder in your eye, Serah Hawke?" the seneschal responded with mocking solicitousness.

"Cad," she retorted, returning her gaze to her surroundings.

She made her way out of the chantry, where, by the grace of the Merciful Sisters of the Ascended Andraste, most of the blood had been cleaned from the floor and walls. Neither Sebastian nor Aubrey could be seen and she was grateful for that small mercy.

Her eye throbbed painfully, her hip ached abominably and all of Serendipity's tender ministrations had been undone by the tension in the meeting she'd had to endure, seated across from the most obdurate and coldhearted woman she had ever had the displeasure of meeting. That one was going to be trouble, she had no doubt.

"The grand cleric must take that hard-hearted and soulless knight commander in hand before the templars usurp her power and that of the viscount's. Truly, Grand Cleric Elthina has more hair than wits. Can she not see that by her very inaction she is condoning Mother Petrice's machinations?"

When Bran didn't remark, she continued, "Not, of course, that I would presume to dictate how the grand cleric or the viscount should handle the matter, truly, but it seems to me … what? What are you sniggering about?"

"Not presume? My dear Serah Hawke, you are the most presumptuous person I have ever encountered."

"What a shabby, rag-mannered thing to say. I believe you have finally managed to draw my ire."

"Given the morning's events, I stand relieved that I've managed to draw your ire without your drawing my claret."

"The day is young, Ser Seneschal, the day is young," she prophesized, her threat delivered in an airy and unconcerned manner. She was far too much in charity with Bran to bloody his nose, though she was surprised by his use of sporting cant.

"Hawke! Hawke!" a boisterous voice, full of good humor, called from across the square.

She wasn't sure she was happy with the interruption but she paused, Bran stiffening beside her. She patted his arm, which did nothing to mollify him, and she raised her brow before shrugging lightly at his continued silence. Turning her smile on the mage hurrying across the paved walkway, she called out cheerfully, "Anders! What brings you up here? A desire to be seen with the frivolous fops and coxcombs of Hightown?"

"It was your siren call, my darling Grace! Only that," the mage in question replied, grabbing her by her shoulders and placing a loud, smacking kiss on each cheek. "Shall I continue?" he asked suggestively, brows waggling as he cast a quick glance at her companion.

"You scalawag, you need something, don't try to gammon me," she replied, her smile broadening into a grin. "Not that your methods are altogether deplorable. Now, greet Bran and cease waggling those golden brows of yours."

Anders glanced, again, at the man beside Grace and she reached out and caught his chin in a surprisingly firm grip. "Speak freely or not at all," she told him, stunned by the stern, defensive note in her voice, but no more so than Anders, whose eyes widened with surprise.

"Ah, it's like that, is it?" he teased knowingly after a brief pause, pulling away from her grasp with another waggle of his expressive eyebrows.

She refused to blush and the heat in her cheeks was no doubt due to the warmth of the day. Anders looked again at her eye and then his eyes tracked to Bran's fist, knuckles swollen and bloody. His golden visage darkened noticeably and for a minute, Grace was afraid Justice would arrive and a storm would ensue.

"Why you cowardly, craven little man! How dare you strike a sweet, defenseless woman?" So shouting, Anders brought his fists up and began to dance on his toes like a marionette whose strings had twisted and broken, squaring off against Bran while Grace found herself snickering.

"Anders!" she finally managed in between chuckles. "You are a_ mage_, you have no idea how to box!"

Anders lowered his arms, his fists uncurling. "Oh, right you are, Hawke. Shall I freeze him or fry him?" he asked flippantly.

Around another gurgling laugh, Grace replied, "Neither, please. He did not give me this shiner, Aveline did. You would do well to freeze her as her temperament is hot enough without your adding fuel to the fire."

"Really? Then I suppose it is a coincidence that his knuckles are in such bad shape? Maybe from dragging them along the ground as he walks?" Anders sniped snidely. Meow, little kitty, Grace thought, finally controlling her wayward laughter.

"He defended my honor against another, you rattlepate! Or perhaps it was Sebastian's honor you were defending?" she asked, casting what she hoped was a sweet, innocent smile at Bran, whose own smile was quickly turned into a raised brow of reproof at her shenanigans. "You _poseur_," she added in a soft whisper of affection. His eyebrow inched higher but his manner remained aloof and coolly polite. She sighed but was content to allow him his dignity in the matter.

Anders, an unrepentant and thoroughly roguish smile on his lips, stepped closer to examine her eye, which wanted to water constantly. He wiped away the moisture absently, studying the swollen eye with a frown. "She didn't hold back, did she? I can ease the pain and swelling but I can't do a bloody thing about the bruising, dear heart."

Grace sighed. "I thought not. Perhaps a beefsteak would help?"

"Are you hungry, sweetling? I've an apple in my pocket," Anders replied cheerfully, handing her a badly bruised apple. Her eye knew exactly how it felt.

"I meant to keep the color from becoming too pronounced," she said, her laughter once again spilling out.

"Ah. Too late for that, I'm afraid. Now, quit distracting me with your lovely charms and let me see to Seneschal Bran's mangled hand."

So saying, the mage reached down and plucked Bran's hand up in his, the sweet scent of magic and lyrium filling the air around the trio. Grace was surprised at how docile Bran was in his acceptance of help and she was equally surprised by the gentleness of Anders's touch on Bran as he worked on the split skin across the knuckles of Bran's hand.

"So, defending her honor, mate? Noble, if unnecessary, that's all I will say. Well, that and one more thing: go soak your hand in warm water with a pinch of elfroot in it."

"Thank you," Bran said, his voice hovering between frigid and arctic, with a hint of icy around the edges.

Grace's good eye narrowed. "What has put you in a snit now?" she asked him in a hissing whisper that hinted more of frustration than anger.

Anders grinned, eyes swinging from her to Bran with lively interest. "Yes, old man, what have I done to incur your disapproval? Oh, I say, you aren't jealous, are you? Ha!"

Thoughts of a jealous Bran brought Grace's good mood returning and she quirked a delicate brow in his direction, feigning a moue of distress. "Never say it is so."

With nary a word, Bran once again tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began to walk, rather quickly, towards the keep, Anders accompanying them at a sedate – and safe – distance.

"What has your garters tightened now?" Grace persisted.

"It is of no significance," he replied, all stringent ice.

"May the Maker thrice curse me for demanding to know," she muttered, but plodded on. "Please, do not restrain yourself on my account, Seneschal Bran."

He didn't speak again until they had entered his office and he had slammed the door in Anders's face. The mage merely called out, as cheerful as a squirrel in a walnut tree, that he'd meet Grace at her home later. Grace turned to Bran, an eyebrow raised, waiting for him to speak.

"You are the most intemperate, temperamental, tempestuous and divinely tempting woman I have ever met."

Jealous! He truly was jealous. Grace nearly bit her tongue off trying to contain her gloating gleefulness. "Such a declaration, my dear man, you have me quite swooning."

"Not by half I don't, but I will," he threatened and pulled her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was as ruthless as it was lush, lips gliding with silky intent and sensual promise. Grace returned it with fervor, her mouth opening to his tongue's velvet assault. When he stepped back, she clutched at his arm, her knees weak, her resolve to become a lady of society winging its way out his window.

"You are the most aggravating, irascible, fractious and oddly adorable man, but you cannot continue to treat me like I'm a doxy one minute and a lady the next," she declared when her breath had recovered enough to speak without her voice wobbling. Even then there was a odd, breathiness to it, a sudden huskiness. This won't do, she reprimanded herself, though with no hope of listening to herself. She wasn't some milk and water miss, she was a bloody adult, damn the Maker's curses! She cleared her throat, her mind and her heart of schoolgirl thoughts and squared her chin.

"Especially if you intend to win your bet," she added with such firm determination that she surprised herself. Why she wanted the man to win his bet escaped her, but win it he would or she would be thrice cursed by Andraste and her Maker!

Gad, but love was an incomprehensible state, she thought with a suppressed sigh. Her heart faltered at that. Love? She had admitted to herself how much she lusted after the handsome seneschal, but had barely dared to consider the deeper ramifications of such a notion as being in love with him. No, by the Maker, she couldn't really love him in that way, could she? In the 'happily ever after' way that spelled disaster? Drat, she had not counted on falling for the man quite so hard, but she realized time for admonishments had long since passed. Lovely. What was once a wonderful interlude was becoming a need to set up house with the man. She was doomed, deluded and ready to depart his office before she actually fawned over the cockle-headed, cocksure seneschal.

Love? Faugh! Love was for lunatics and the lovelorn … and dizzy young women who read romantic rubbish ... and the pimply young men who dreamed of winning fair maidens. It was not for unladylike women who sported black eyes. She let out a low hiss of indignation. A fine coil she had landed in. Damn him for being … for being what? Himself? As confused as she was? Argh, what did it matter? Her mind was becoming a sentimental minefield and she was not going to make a bigger cake of herself than she already had.

"Grace, we should –"

She held up a hand to silence him and then opened the door. "I have to report to Viscount Dumar," she said, her voice sounding oddly strangled. And perhaps drop by the Arishok and learn more about the Qun, she mentally added. Even she knew the Qunari did not espouse love. And what an ill-considered, ill-judged choice of adjectives, she chastised herself, the door shutting behind her with decided force.

Instead of the Arishok she went in search of Anders.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Junders!" Grace thundered, dripping blood and gore and fear-induced rage. "Stand down! If you so much as rearrange one of her ringlets I will paint the walls with you!"

"I must serve Justice!"

"If you want to serve it, understand it first! At this moment it is apparent that you don't have the faintest idea what justice is, you dunderhead!" she shouted like a fishwife, thumping the back of his head with a flattened palm.

If Grace recalled correctly, and there was no reason to believe she had, the young mage's name was Terry or Kerry or Berry or some such, and she was cowering, hands protecting her face. As if that would stop a spell, Grace thought with disgust. Not that she blamed the mage for her foolishness; she had grown up in a Tower that didn't teach anything even remotely helpful to actually living in reality.

"You don't hurt the people you're trying to save, Junders. That's as foolish and nonsensical as your trying to turn lead into gold."

With a defensive growl, Junders – still awash in ethereal blue – muttered petulantly, "They guaranteed such a feat was possible."

"Then go after _them_, not this poor mage whose only crime is naivety."

The blue glow began to fade, but flared up briefly. "Are you quite certain your own sentimentality does not cloud your vision, Grace?" Justice asked in a reasonable, if disappointed, voice that resonated off the nearby stone walls.

"I'm the least sentimental person I know," Grace protested, still standing protectively over the young mage. With a little huff, she stepped aside, examining her nails with great, if feigned, fascination.

"A plumper if ever I heard one," Anders said, all traces of the blue fire of death gone from him.

"Seriously, where do you and Justice get your notions of justice? Please, do us all a favor and read that treatise written by Olifur, Wyndull and Holmes entitled _Impartiality and Fairness, the Cornerstone of Supreme Justice_."

"Maker, Grace, nobody reads that type of tripe!" Anders cried in mock horror.

The mage whimpered, reminding Grace of her presence and Grace turned her smile on the young girl. "Now, if you have someone outside of Kirkwall to run to, I suggest you do so. Immediately. Or perhaps sooner. There will be the demon to pay for this day's work, I suspect."

"Ha, ha, Grace. You really ought to stand up on stage with that act," Anders said sarcastically. "Demon to pay? And no doubt I'll put up a spirited fight?" he guffawed, bumping shoulders with her.

Grace sheathed her weapon, after first wiping it on Anders's robes, and then scrounged in her kit for a few coins. She pulled out several sovereigns and placed them in the girl's hand. "Go and do not look back," she urged the girl, who nodded, bobbed, nodded again and then skittered away like a crab scuttling from the shore to the ocean.

"Seriously, Anders, you need to learn a bit of control. And that means you as well, Justice. I know you can hear me. Besides, had you not killed Alrik we might have been able to expose just how corrupt the templars are. A bit of torture, a few well placed kicks, and the man would have confessed to his perverse perfidy. For a spirit, Justice, you have a very hot temper."

"I apologize, Grace, I did not intend to strike fear in the young mage, nor rend the templar into such _tiny_ pieces. I will attempt to do as you suggest. Shall we make good our escape?" Justice replied, remorse coloring his deep, booming voice.

"Search any of the bodies not shredded, just in case they've left some incriminating evidence of their dastardly deeds. I've got to clean up for a dinner date and hope it isn't hash of some kind," Grace replied, turning to leave, her stomach just a bit on the roiling side of happy.

"Wait, Grace! I haven't thanked you!" Anders called softly.

"Thank me by assuming a bit more control, Junders!" she called back, flashing a smile over her shoulder and then walking on, pretending her eye wasn't throbbing again and her stomach wasn't ready to turn itself inside out.

Her mother was waiting when she entered the house, her eyes widening in shock at Grace's bloody armor and black eye. "Gracious, Grace, have you been fighting again? What have I told you about fisticuffs and ladies?" her mother asked, a sleek brow raised in dismayed reproof.

"Sorry, Mother, I do try to remember your very helpful strictures, truly, but these evil-doers will throw themselves on my weapons. What is a girl to do?" Grace replied, striving for a light tone and almost succeeding.

"No man of any consequence will affiance himself to such a hey-go-mad hoyden," the older woman remonstrated and Grace was shocked to discover her mother appeared serious.

"How splendid, since I am not seeking a man of any consequence…or any man at all, come to that," she retorted, the day's events reflected in her irritated tone.

She took the stairs two at a time, calling for a bath as she went and within moments had settled herself in the large tub of hot, soapy water. Closing her eyes was a mistake as visions of shredded templar filled her vision. With ruthless efficiency, she pushed those images out and tried to concentrate on pleasant thoughts, but that only opened the door to confusion and confliction over her relationship, or lack thereof, with Bran.

He was impossibly moody or, at the very least, undecided in what he wanted. How could a man who seemed to detest all women for daring to exist kiss with such impassioned tenderness? How could he pull her close in one breath and shove her aside in the next? Did she do the same? Why did they insist on brangling over everything? Serendipity said it was unfulfilled sexual tension, which had been fulfilled, if only temporarily, on his office floor. Was that really all that existed between them? That was a lowering thought, indeed.

When she was standing in her wrapper, toes curled into the carpet for warmth, she eyed her meager collection of gowns - grown larger in the past few weeks, but still without a great deal of variety - and longed for her comfortable shirts and trousers. She also thought about a man who wasn't moody, mordant and mesmeric, which led her to considering the other men in her acquaintance. All of them, now that she thought about it, were a bit frightening. Fenris with his molten engravings and soulful eyes, Anders exuding sexuality and Justice curious about the variety of positions and feelings that went with the act, Sebastian with his deep brogue and aristocratic manners and wonderfully muscled thighs and … blinking, she drew a shuddering breath, turning her thoughts back to her evening. She loved them all but they didn't stimulate her intellect and body in the same breath, they didn't hold her in their arms and captivate her imagination so readily. Well, perhaps the odd fantasy, but that was the extent of it. Going down that street was entertaining but not particularly useful in coming up with answers as to her state of mind, she decided with a frown.

She grabbed a pale peach dress, trimmed with dark green silk ribbons at the sleeves and high waist, and pulled it over her head, determined to dress herself without Orana's help. She struggled mightily, turning in a circle with her arms bent in unnatural angles trying to hook her dress.

In the end, it was her mother, and not Orana, who assisted her with her gown. "I know you detest being a quidnunc, Mama, but I really need to know why Bran is so contrary and so bitter about women," she prodded, meeting her mother's eyes in the mirror with reluctance, lest her thoughts be read with great efficiency and accuracy.

"Really, Grace, it is not a story that I can feel quite comfortable in telling as I have only second-hand knowledge of the events."

"Fustian nonsense, Mother. I have no doubt you have quizzed poor Viscount Dumar until he confessed his knowledge of the events in all their sordid splendor."

She held her mother's gaze with impregnable determination. The clash of wills gave an impression of palpable forces swirling about each woman and of breaths being held, tension tightening about them both until Grace was on the verge of …

"Well, it was quite a scandal at the time, I assure you," her mother began, the glow in her eyes becoming more pronounced as she appeared every bit the storyteller. "Bran fell in love with a woman of easy virtue, you see. He was unaware of her past and she was unwilling to divulge it. She was a striking golden-haired, blue eyed temptress, or so they say, and he whisked her off, obtained a special license from Grand Cleric Elthina, and married her before anyone really knew what was happening." Her mother paused, drawing a deep breath and the light of compassion came to her eyes as she carefully twisted Grace's hair into an intricate crown of braids.

"It was not a happy match," Grace guessed and then her eyes widened as she thought of Keir, who looked more like Isabela's child than Bran's. "May the Maker thrice curse the woman!"

"And so He must have, Grace, because the woman, after giving birth to Keir within seven months of marrying Bran, left in the company of Alfonso Demetri and died shortly afterwards. A year or two after the birth, I believe."

"Demetri the Demon Pirate?" Grace asked, sure her expression was as agog as her brain.

"Quite."

"That's why Keir lives with Bran's parents? It's too painful for Bran to be reminded of that lightskirt's recreancy?"

"Everyone knew the truth of the chicanery the moment they saw the child with his obvious Rivaini heritage. And it is not as you suppose, Grace. Bran loves Keir and it is that love for him that keeps the child from Kirkwall. The gossip was vicious and Bran did not want it to reflect on his child. He clearly adores the little scamp."

Falling silent, and trying not to fall even more deeply in love with the irascible seneschal, whose heart was far kinder than she had heretofore thought, Grace stared into space, avoiding her mother's shrewd gaze. Her mother continued to hover until Grace waved the woman's fluttering fingers away from her tamed hair and stood. "Do not fuss so, Mother. Bran will not care a fig about a stray strand or two of hair and I'll not be late because I have primped like some green girl newly sprung on society."

A tender, amused smile flitted across her mother's countenance. "Indeed, for we all know you are hardly a green girl. Nor, come to that, are you newly sprung on society as you have _yet_ to be presented to society," the older woman commented with a hint of laughter.

"Fie upon thee, woman! You who would quote fact when all the world prefers faradiddle and scandalbroth!" Grace cried, grabbing up a paisley shawl and her reticule. Once both items were secured, she placed a lethal looking knife into a sheath and, under the watchful - if somewhat shocked - eyes of her mother, lifted her skirt and buckled the sheath to her left thigh.

"I trust you'll keep this information to yourself?" her mother said with a martial glint in her eyes.

Grace's eyes, of their own volition, rolled upward. She could no more stop that action than she could cry halt to the setting of the sun. "Please, Mother, give me credit for the veriest hint of decorum. I am not a harum-scarum chit come new to the city," she complained with regal dignity as she swept from the room.

"Of course you aren't, dearest child. Never would I suggest such a thing," her mother agreed with feigned seriousness, the humor limning each word and imbuing her voice with laughter.

"Pernicious progenitor," Grace muttered darkly as she hurried downstairs.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Good evening, Grace! Father warned me, but I must say that's a magnificent shiner. He's upstairs … changing. He said not to tell you why, however," Keir greeted exuberantly before sweeping a formal bow. She managed a half curtsy before the sheathed knife reminded her of its presence on her left thigh. It appeared that she would need a smaller knife and sheath for formal occasions.

"No doubt he spilled something while he was in the kitchen preparing our meal," she guessed, handing the young man her shawl and reticule but not the knife. Not that she expected to need it during the course of their courses, but she liked to be prepared for any eventuality and it might be needed to cut her meat if Bran was as distracted as she was.

"The béchamel sauce for the capon. I don't suppose I've disobeyed him since you guessed the right of it," he continued, offering her his arm and leading her into a gracefully appointed salon.

"Indeed, and so I shall tell him should he chide you. Does he do all the cooking?"

"No, I do not," the man in question replied, entering the room with stiff formality. "However, I have given the staff the night off and prepared this evening's meal."

"I suspect he wants to ensure I am knowledgeable in which utensil, glass and dish to use. Shall I demonstrate my understanding of formal dining etiquette or bedevil him with my lack of erudition in such matters?"

Keir laughed, rubbing his hands together, not at all cowed or quelled by his father's censorious glare in his direction. Grace offered Keir a wink and was, in turn, offered a glass of wine, which she had to refrain from gulping, such were her nerves at Bran's nearness. Drat the man and his studied grace. Drat her traitorous heart.

"The strangest thing occurred on my way here," she said after carefully sipping her wine and admonishing her galloping heart to still itself. She promised said heart that she would guzzle the wine when the Drummonds were distracted and that seemed to calm it.

"Coming from you that's a disquieting remark," Bran stated, sitting down across from her just as his son sank down on the silk-covered settee beside her.

"What? What did you see?" Keir asked, his dark eyes bright with curiosity. He really was a wonderful boy, she decided and then mentally shook her head. And she was a hopeless case, so far gone she was in danger of making a cake of herself. Again. She steadied herself and avoided Bran's gaze.

"The Funkyl twins, Art and Gar, were each sporting what appeared to be black eyes. Naturally I inquired as to the nature of such a thing. Well, they were a bit incoherent about what happened but it seems that black eyes are now the latest rage and that it's considered _ala mode_ to have such a distinguishing mark, though they are in the way of using cosmetics to simulate the black eye. I can scarce credit how absolutely goose-witted people are. Trust me, I would not deliberately seek to have this _shiner_, as you so adroitly called it, Keir."

The young man was howling with laughter at this and Bran's aloof manner dissolved into a warm smile, which might have melted Grace into a puddle had she not looked quickly at Keir.

"Though I confess, and forgive me for saying so, I was certainly tempted to plant a facer on two such foolish children. Tell me you will not sport a black eye come the morrow, Keir," she concluded with a wink from her discolored eye.

"It does look painful."

"Such things are to be avoided at all costs," she agreed, turning to Bran and feeling that odd plummeting sensation as he held her gaze. When had she eaten a crate of butterflies? Maker, she wanted nothing more than to curl up in his lap and be whisked upstairs to his bedchamber. Damn his brandy-colored eyes for tempting her with such a thing. How quickly could they finish their dinner?

"How many courses have you prepared?" she finally managed around a suddenly dry mouth.

"Four, with removes," he replied, a wicked gleam in his eyes, obviously reading her lascivious thoughts quite easily. How embarrassing that was, and yet oddly exhilarating. "Keir's a growing lad and needs sustenance," he added and his smile grew in deviltry.

"Say, Grace, if I can come back to Kirkwall again for a longer stay, will you teach me how to fight with daggers?"

She pulled her gaze away from Bran and stared at Keir as her brain slowly processed his request. "Certainly, but only if you will teach me how to beat your father at chess."

Keir extended his hand and she shook it gravely. "Now that we have struck a deal, shall we encourage your father to start serving? I find I'm ravenous and will probably eat with the most unholy speed."

Bran snickered quietly and rose, offering a hand to her, which she accepted with alacrity. She was tempted to stab him with her knife as he seemed completely unruffled, unhurried and unencumbered by the same urges she was feeling at his nearness.

Dinner passed in a blur of small talk and longing looks across the polished mahogany. The food could have been sawdust for all that she tasted of it, but she tried to sample everything, compliment it all and still converse with any degree of intelligence, all the while feeling as though Bran was greatly amused by her. Could he tell that she was becoming a veritable peagoose over him? That she was falling deeper and deeper into the mire of being in love with him? She would be thrice cursed by Andraste if she'd admit to such sentimentality. At least before dessert.

She was tempted to reach across the expanse of gleaming wood and give him an _ala mode _eye of his very own, at times. She was sure he was delighting in her discomfort but he must have had a few lewd and lustful thoughts as well because he suddenly excused Keir, explaining that he would be late for his overnight stay with Saemus if he didn't leave immediately. Leaping up from the table in relief at not having to clear and clean the dishes, Keir offered a grin, a wave and his backside as he hurried out of the room and disappeared. A few minutes later the front door closed with a loud bang.

Bran was beside her chair and helping her out of it, along with her clothes, before she could ask what was for dessert.

Apparently she was, which bothered her not at all.


	17. Sense and Nonsensibility

**Sense and Nonsensibility **

"Is there a reason, my dear seneschal, that you are reluctant to avail yourself of a bed for certain activities? Some salient bit of information in that regard to which only you are privy?"

The table's edge was biting into the small of her back and Bran stepped back, looking faintly scandalized at the state of her dishevelment, as if he hadn't been the very one to dishevel her! Crockery had scattered across the highly polished sea of mahogany, and her dress and muslin petticoat were in appalling disarray.

"I have the greatest desire to take you in – to - that very place," he admitted, his lids lowering on his lust-filled gaze, his voice deepened by desire.

"Might we do so sooner rather than later?" she inquired, a hint of amusement in her voice, her lips twitching with the need to smile.

"With all due haste, Serah Hawke," he assured.

Without further ado, without regard to the proprieties - as they seemed to be long past such concerns - and without effort, he scooped her up and made his way to the stairs as she began to unbutton his crisp white shirt. While she was quite impressed with his show of strength, she refused to admit how cherished she felt within the circle of his arms. In fact, she would rather put her lips to better service and found a spot between his jaw and neck that seemed to assure him of her ardor, his groan a tantalizing rumble.

"Do you growl at all your conquests, Seneschal Bran?"

"Are you, indeed, a conquest, Serah Hawke? I rather thought you the predator and I the prey."

"Did you truly? How diverting! I _rather thought_ that your constant need to animadvert at length upon my deplorable lack of grace and manner was some primitive courting ritual that I was hitherto unfamiliar with."

"I no more animadvert than you embark upon peregrinations, disappearing for days and oft times weeks on end with no thought given to those who might wish to ascertain your whereabouts."

Being slightly perturbed by so unjust a remark, she allowed her teeth to nip rather sharply at his warm skin, although he seemed to enjoy the action. "Indeed, Seneschal Bran, I call that guileful in the extreme, as well as iniquitous! It is oft times under your command that I find myself perambulating about the countryside! How very like you – "

"Magnificent," he murmured, interrupting her with a well-timed, well-placed kiss, which she felt compelled, for the sake of common courtesy, to respond to.

Any additional conversation was confined to monosyllabic sounds and long sighs and incoherent murmurs. Grace found herself unable - and later unwilling - to converse with any degree of intelligence.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Hawke, you're really in danger of living in Bran's hip pocket, not to mention you've become downright boring! I love a good romp as well as the next, honestly, but even I come up for air or a night out on the town. Now come along!"

Sighing, Grace slipped her cloak off the peg and pulled it around her to ward off the cool night air blowing in from Sundermount, the promise of rain sweetening the air. "Hip pocket? Don't be so melodramatic, Isabela! I feel quite certain that his breeches have no hip pocket."

"You're also in danger of losing the wager. Who'll see you as a proper lady with all the shenanigans going on in that mansion of his?"

"A proper lady isn't entitled to frolic? Perhaps just the tiniest gambol with the seneschal?" Grace teased.

Isabela bumped shoulders with her as they walked along the street, sending Grace careening into Anders, who enfolded her in his arms, smacked a kiss on her forehead and sent her back in Isabela's direction with a bright grin.

"Varric? What have you to say on the matter?" she asked, stumbling into him and using his shoulder to brace herself.

"Sure, now you come to me for advice? I'm wounded that you didn't ask sooner," he groused, stumping along with a frown of mammoth proportions.

"Fustian nonsense, Varric! You are no more wounded than Fenris is good-humored," she retorted, matching her stride to his, which involved taking much smaller steps than she was accustomed to. She linked arms with him to assist with the process. "You're just upset because I'm not giving you all the salacious details."

A golden brow arched and he made an inarticulate sound somewhere between disbelief and disgust, with just a hint of laughter to make the sound truly interesting. "As if I want to know how two humans spend their time in the sack. No mystery there. I mean it's not like a dwarf and a human or an elf and a human or a dwarf and a

"Nug?" she suggested, grinning broadly. Anders and Isabela shouted their laughter and Varric's lips twitched.

"Grace, you shouldnae say such things," Sebastian protested, but not without a certain lightness in his voice that intimated laughter lurked nearby.

"If you promise to get bosky and recite tongue-twisting verse with your wonderful brogue, I'll refrain from saying such things," she vowed to the prince. "In particular, I would love to hear you recite: _Ser Regis rises really early every morrow, rises so surely with nary a whimper._"

"Oh, think of all that rolling - like a ship in a storm! Serrrrr Rrrrregis rrrrises…I do love the way your mind works, Hawke!" Isabela chimed in, laughing as she linked arms with Fenris, who had just joined them.

"Hawke," he greeted with his usual gravity.

"Fenris," Grace replied, imitating his voice so perfectly that he gave a delicate shiver. She winked and explained, "I've been practicing."

"When have you had the time?" he queried, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Why, Fenris! Where in Thedas did you manage to find a sense of humor?" she asked, imbuing her words with amazement.

"I have never been without one," he replied with solemn dignity, lifting his chin ever so slightly. "I have merely refrained from devastating you with my rapier wit."

The group was still laughing as they entered the Rusty Cock, which was crowded and noisy with revelers and muckrakes alike. Anders and Varric elbowed their way through the crowds and secured a table for them, though Grace was loath to ask how they managed such a feat, especially as she knew where Varric's elbows reached, given his height, or lack thereof.

"Is it my imagination or does there seem to be a certain hecticity in the air?" Grace asked once their drinks had been procured.

"Hecticity? Is that another one of your contrived words?"

"Varric, how very unkind of you to make such an accusation! I am quite injured, not to mention offended, by your words. And if it is a contrivance then I am sure you'll agree with me that there ought to be such a word for it perfectly describes the atmosphere in here tonight."

"Probably because there are templars here. Isn't that Ser Cuddles over there?" Varric asked, pointing at the bar.

Rotating her head, Grace managed to catch a glimpse of Ser "Cuddles" Cullen resting against a pillar just in sight of the barkeep.

"I had no idea they served milk here," she remarked, while instinctively reaching over and resting a hand on Anders's hand, which had begun to twitch.

Before she could verbalize an admonition that everyone relax and enjoy themselves without ripping the place apart, drinks mysteriously arrived at their table. Tankards were raised in praise of the hecticity of the place, much to the amusement of Grace's companions. Another round was quickly ordered, with instructions not to stop their timely arrival until the holy gleam of Sebastian's white armor was as tarnished and as dark as the Black City.

"You really need to let it go, Anders. It isn't as if Cullen is trying to bring you in or anything. He's merely here to drink, just like the rest of us," Grace said after the first tankard had been neatly guzzled and she awaited the next.

"He's so self-righteous!" the mage complained, a hint of whine in his voice.

"Have you heard Justice lately?" Fenris snorted. "He brings self-righteousness to new and dazzling heights. I cannot imagine Ser Cullen rises above the spirit."

"Now, wait just one moment! I resent such insinuations and aspersions," Justice rumbled, a spark of blue dancing across Anders's forehead and down his arm.

"Justice, put yourself away this minute!" Grace hissed, casting a hasty glance over her shoulder at the templar still leaning on the bar but glancing their way, a frown marring the perfection of his finely shaped brows.

"I will not! Such injustice must be answered!"

"Not now, Junders!" Grace reprimanded sharply, feeling a frisson of anxiety creep along her spine and shiver up to her neck, where hair immediately rose in surprise. She watched as Cullen pushed away from the bar and began to weave through the crowd, his frown deepening.

"Lovely, Junders! Thanks for being a prideful spirit, which, by the by, makes you a Pride Demon in my book!" Grace snarled and then shoved the mage out of his chair. "Go sing for us and try to look casual and insouciant!"

"In what?" Anders asked, staggering to his feet to avoid the onslaught of Grace's elbow.

"Just sing, you half-witted peagoose!" she commanded.

Anders, with the help of his friends, stood atop the table and Isabela joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist and grinning at the thunderous applause.

"Evenin' all you drunken reprobates! How about some entertainment?" Isabela bellowed, nudging Anders.

"Aye, 'Bela! Whatchyer singin'?" one of the reprobates called out.

"Not me, you silly sods. I'll just stand here to be gaped at while Anders treats us all to a song."

By now, Cullen was trapped and held back by the swarm of drunks waiting for Anders to begin while they stared, transfixed, by Isabela's ample charms. With a rather militant glance at Grace, the mage cleared his throat. As he began, a cheeky smile came out and all trace of Justice disappeared. Grace found herself on her feet and moving through the throng of patrons to stand beside Cullen as Anders belted out:

_I'm getting harrowed in the morning!__  
__Zip, zap my spells are just sublime!__  
__Pull out the stopper! Let's 'ave a whopper!__  
__But get me to the Fade on time!_

_I gotta be there in the mornin'__  
__It oughta be a bleedin' crime!__  
__Girls, come and kiss me;__  
__Show 'ow you'll miss me.__  
__And get me to the Fade on time!_

_If I am dancin' roll up the floor.__  
__If I am whistlin' whewt me out the door!_

_For I'm gettin' harrowed in the mornin'__  
__Zip, zap my spells are just sublime!__  
__Kick out the templars, just use examplars  
And get me to the Fade,__  
__Get me to the Fade,__  
__Maker, get me to the Fade on time!_

_Mages are sneakin' off to bed now.__  
__Bucketheads are sleepin' on their watch,__  
__Old Greagoir is awakin', Irving's in a takin'._

_Cuz I'm gettin' harrowed in the mornin'__  
__Zip, zap my spells are just sublime!__  
__Please don't ignore me, just kiss and adore me!__  
__And get me to the Fade,__  
__Get me to the Fade,__  
__Maker, get me to the Fade on time!_

As he finished with a flourish that nearly sent him tumbling to the floor, Anders waved and hopped down from the table to the sound of riotous applause. There were calls for an encore and for Grace and Isabela to sing, but Grace ignored them all in favor of inviting Cullen to sit down and join them for a drink.

"I couldn't, really, Hawke. Every time I see Anders I'm reminded of that horrible time in the Tower," he mumbled, looking pinched and pale in the dim light.

"You mean during Uldred's rebellion?" she asked softly, all sympathy and concern, having heard the account from him on prior occasions.

"No, although Maker knows that was horrendous; the torture nearly drove me insane. No, I refer to the weeks Anders spent practicing his primal spells before finally giving up on them. You have no idea the carnage - the devastation - that was wrought."

With a chuckle, she released his arm. "Suit yourself, but you know we are a harmless lot."

"Neither of us believes that codswallop, Hawke. No, I meant only to stop in and gauge the mood of the city. Give my regards to Sebastian," he continued, a hint of longing in his voice. "And the others, of course," he added hastily.

Grace worked very hard to keep a straight face as she nodded, unwilling to trust her voice not to be slathered in amusement. _Sebastian_? "I – will be happy to do so," she finally said, voice thick with laughter, which died as soon as he spoke again.

"And Hawke, be careful of Ser Varnell. He is up to something with regard to the Qunari, I am sure of it. I suspect he has the Knight Commander's approval, whatever it is."

With those ominous words, Ser Cullen turned and pushed his way out of the crowded tavern, leaving Grace standing alone and feeling more than a little uneasy. She wondered if she ought to go immediately to the Qunari compound and speak to the Arishok, to warn him that some game was afoot, but as she had no idea what it might be, she hesitated.

"Cryptic bastard," she muttered, watching Cullen disappear.

_I suppose I could go after him, but he if he knew something specific, surely he would have told me. Or not. Maybe I should send Sebastian after him. Of course, he'd probably be too tongue-tied to speak then._ With a growl of irritation, because she already knew the course she would take, Grace sat down at the table and eyed her friends.

Really, it was hardly her concern if the simmering tension in the city suddenly exploded. Obviously neither the viscount nor his seneschal considered there to be an imminent threat to their beloved city state, why should she concern herself with such matters? She had more pressing problems, or at least she was sure she could manufacture some that would not lead down such a slippery slope. _Maker, give me strength to hold my tongue … that's it, that's all I ask. _

"Who among you has a desire to see what the Arishok sleeps in?" she asked, surprised to hear herself speak but striving for nonchalance and succeeding better than her friends, who seemed to explode with sounds ranging from disgust to laughter and all points in between. All, Grace noticed with a slight frown, except Isabela, who was busy eyeing the foaming head of her drink and maintaining a marked silence.

"Isabela, I confess to being astounded. You have no desire to see that tall, muscular, mysterious Qunari in the altogether?" Grace prodded, eyeing her friend. "That makes absolutely no sense."

Isabela shuddered and looked away. "Not one tiny flame of desire, Grace, not even a flicker. None. Nada. "

"No curiosity whatsoever?"

"Hawke, no means no!" Isabela exclaimed, downing her frothy beverage and slamming the tankard on the table with a resounding thump.

Grace frowned, rubbing her chin pensively. Now that she thought about it she couldn't recall a time when Isabela had joined them at the compound. In fact, she had departed precipitously the one occasion when they had been headed for the shipping master and Grace had detoured to the compound to visit with the Arishok.

"Isabela, my lovely pirate lady, faint heart ne'er wins exquisitely built Qunari," Grace remonstrated, watching her friend turn slightly pale under her deeply tanned skin.

"There's nothing exquisite about them, they're all horny and grumpy," Isabela muttered darkly. "Horned, I mean. Stop looking at me like that," she added, casting a glare at Grace that, had it been anyone else, might have been cause for trepidation.

By now the entire table was focused on the conversation and Isabela's strange reluctance to discuss the Qunari. Grace watched as the pirate glanced around at them, her dark eyes lighting on Fenris. With a suggestive smile, she crooked her finger and, when he seemed about to refuse her, uncrooked her finger, sucked lightly on it and managed to heave her bosom at the same time. Grace was fascinated and faintly envious of the perfection of such a move, and looked at her own barely adequate breasts. Life was definitely not fair. At least the spirit responsible for handing out breasts had a perverse sense of humor, at the very least, Grace thought with a mental sigh.

"I find I am fatigued from a strenuous day. I bid you all good night," Fenris said, his voice huskier than normal. Grace reflected wryly that the smoldering look he gave Isabela could have melted the buttons off a dress.

"Good night, have fun with the Arishok!" Isabela crowed with a thick dollop of triumph as she wound herself around Fenris's arm.

"I suppose it can wait until tomorrow," Grace mumbled, reaching for her mug of ale with a forlorn sigh, silently lamenting Bran's absence. He had accompanied the viscount to watch the guard's maneuvers near Sundermount. Some idiot had complained that the Dalish were amassing an army there and Aveline had decided a show of force was necessary.

"Do nae look so sad, lass," Sebastian said, leaning forward and chucking her under the chin as if she was a child rather than an adult. She flung a raised eyebrow in his direction. "Come, lass, 'tis nae the end of the world," he continued.

With a wink in Varric's direction, she sighed, imbuing as much sadness as she could into that exhalation. "I think the only cure is for those tongue-twisting verses we discussed earlier, Sebbie," she said, affixing him with wide blue eyes.

"Don't you dare bat your lashes, Hawke," Anders warned softly with a gurgle of repressed laughter.

"Aye, lass, I'll nae deny ye," Sebastian said and for the next hour regaled her with his thickest brogue.

It almost made up for Bran's absence and Isabela's strange defection. When he walked her home crooning songs from his youth, she almost forgot who Bran was, near senseless from Sebastian's rrrrregalement of verrrrse.

"By the by, Ser Cullen passed along his regards before he left, Sebbie, most particularly to you. Whatever can it mean?"

A blush marched into Sebastian's cheeks like a conquering army, but he said nothing as he left her at her doorstep, still singing softly to himself.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sunlight filtered into the room with great delicacy through the lacy drapes. Grace opened first one eye and then the other before groaning and closing her eyes against the brightness of the coming day. A light tap at the door caused her eyes to open once again.

"Enter!"

Her mother, wearing a breathtaking gown of deep purple silk with several rows of white lace and ribbons adorning the prim bodice and high neckline, entered the room. Grace stretched and sat up, eyeing her mother with a sleepy smile.

"I feel compelled to inquire, Mother dearest, about the number of purple gowns you currently own. It seems to me that you wear purple ever day, yet never the same gown. Should I expect an exorbitant bill from the mantua-maker or seamstress? And if so, shall I anticipate an equally excessive bill from the milliner?"

"Oh, my dear, how droll of you to discuss such unladylike topics. Truly, my love, it simply isn't done, you know. A woman's lot is to far outspend her allowance for such fripperies and extravagances as she wishes, just as it is a man's lot to assume such debt."

Grace glanced around the room and then slid off the bed, dropped to her knees and peered under her bed. Next she made her way to the armoire and opened it, pushing aside gowns in her search. Finally, she eyed her mother with hands on her hips and smiled sweetly.

"I fear you have sustained an injury to your head, Mama, that you have made such a grievous error," she remarked, patting her mother's arm in a calming manner. "But rest easy, I shall fetch a healer on the nonce, never trouble yourself."

Confusion colored her mother's expression. "I do not understand – oh! Drat and blast, child, I am fully aware there is no male in our life to worry over those bills, never think I forgot! However, it is my fondest hope that such a thing will come to pass anon."

"Anon? Have you and the viscount reached an agreement? Oh, dearest Mama, that is famous!" Grace exclaimed, throwing her arms around her parent in an excess of merriment.

"Never so! No, Grace, I refer to your happy announcement with regard to Bran Drummond, naturally."

"Nonsense! There will be no announcement on the nonce, anon or shortly forthwith. He has made no declaration, nor do I expect one."

"The dastard!" her mother exclaimed, eyes round with feigned horror. "He cannot toy with you in so cavalier a fashion, Grace, and so I shall tell him when next I see him. Ever was he a scapegrace, and ever shall he remain thus."

Laughter spilled from Grace as she went to her mother and hugged her tightly. "You scamp. You know very well that he has not offered for me and that I have no inclination toward connubial bliss," Grace declared affectionately. "I am content as things currently stand between us."

"Grace, you simply cannot continue to carry on this _affaire de amour_ in so bold a fashion. People are talking."

Without any urging on her part, Grace's eyes rolled skyward. "Really, Mother, I don't give a snap about who says what. I am happy. Isn't that enough? Let the tattlemongers be disappointed by my lack of interest in what they have to prattle on about."

"Your happiness is all that I would wish for myself, dear heart, but it is not enough for the gossips and I cannot abide hearing your name bandied about."

"Then do not listen."

"Unnatural child, cannot you see the pain it causes me to have you unmarried?"

"That pain can be eased by one of Bodahn's tisanes, Mother, really. Or perhaps a disinclination towards quite so many sweets."

"Faugh! What I need is a son-in-law and at least two grandchildren. That is the only remedy for my ailment, Grace, and it is abnormal and incomprehensible for a woman of your years to be so disagreeably happy without marriage and a family of her own."

"Please, Mama, do not concern yourself with such trivialities, I beg you, as they only serve to encourage those lines around your eyes and mouth to increase."

Had she a hope that such words would grant her peace she would have been deeply disappointed, but she knew her mother well and truly, so harbored no such hope. As she anticipated, her mother continued her maternal refrain while Grace shrugged into her padding and armor. Finally, Grace pulled out her secret weapon, feeling marginally guilty for doing so, but not so guilty as to abstain.

"I have a bit of a mystery to investigate, Mama, and wonder if you might assist me," Grace said as they made their way downstairs to the breakfast room.

"Oh? I do enjoy a good mystery, dear. Do tell."

They seated themselves at the table and Leandra gracefully unfolded her serviette and placed it in her lap. Grace poured herself a cup of tea, steeped long enough for her spoon to stand upright in her cup, and then spoke.

"I must discover the history between Isabela and the Qunari, for she isn't just reluctant to meet with them, she is adamantly opposed to doing so and refuses outright. When pressed upon, she artfully changes the subject, but there is such a look in her eyes, Mama, that I feel she must need to speak of it. I am at a loss but I thought perhaps …" she trailed off, giving her mother what she hoped was an artless smile. With only a soupcon of guilt, she waited for her mother to rise to the bait. She was not disappointed.

"Oh, a hidden history! My, that is intriguing, dearest. Bring her round for afternoon tea, will you? I shall winnow out the truth, never doubt it," her mother vowed with such conviction that Grace had no doubt as to the outcome of the meeting.

"Oh, mother, I cannot ask that of you."

"Poppycock, dearest. I insist. The woman will be but dough in my hands."

"If you are truly determined upon this course, Mother, I shall not deny you."

"Of course not, Grace. All that delicious acting on your part would be wasted if you denied me," came her mother's amused reply.

Grace flashed a bright, unrepentant grin at her mother, and the women continued their repast in companionable silence.

If anyone could wrestle the truth out of Isabela, it was Leandra Amell Hawke. Grace hadn't a doubt in the world as to the success of the mission, and the relief she felt was enough that she suggested that they spend the morning shopping together.

It was the last such morning they were to share for some time.

**A/N: **_Anders's song is sung to the tune of: _Get Me to the Church on Time_ (from My Fair Lady).__  
My thanks to Oleander's One for her invaluable assistance with this chapter. You, dear lady, simply rock!  
My continued thanks to all those who are following Grace's adventures! __Your reviews are such a wonderful gift!_


	18. Tea and Strumpets

**Tea and Strumpets **

Arranging for Isabela to take tea with Leandra proved no small task for Grace, in part because Isabela's whereabouts were unknown. Grace's first stop was The Hanged Man, where Isabela had been given a room up in the attic, paid for by Varric with little fanfare and even less expectation that she would appreciate his largesse.

Corff, as mendacious and gossipy as ever, was not at all helpful, suggesting he had last seen the Rivaini pirate in the company of One-Eyed Stynkham and Lefty Kyrfuffle, heading to the docks for reasons unknown early that morning.

The notion that Isabela would be caught with either of those two men made Grace's eyes roll skyward. Nothing, not any reason - not even blackmail - would encourage Isabela to travel with such muck-worms as One-Eyed, who smelled of bilge water and boiled cabbage on his best day, and Lefty, a misnomer for a man who had no left arm and even less brains.

Varric fell into step with her when she departed the Hanged Man, Bianca cheerfully clinging to his back like a jealous lover. Which, Grace felt sure, was an accurate representation of man and crossbow. When she raised an inquiring brow at him, he shrugged casually. "Just in case, Hawke. You can't seem to cross the street without causing a riot," he replied to her unasked question, his smile a bit too bright for her liking.

"Nothing of the sort!" she protested vehemently, her eyes wide with indignation.

"Ha! Lowtown, three nights ago? The Oxbow Incident? Ring a bell? You just couldn't resist tweaking Ardis Oxbow about his brother's luck at the tables? I can cite a dozen such incidents over the past month."

"Oh, ye of little faith. Verily and struth, 'tis an ill-spoken friend who buries a knife so deeply into my flesh," Grace replied dramatically, stung by the veracity of his observation. It was hardly her fault that people were such prickly, proud creatures who were as prone to fisticuffs as felicitations.

Varric's grin broadened as they walked towards the Red Lantern district of Hightown. There were any number of places Isabela could be, given the hour, and Grace was confident that it would be a matter of mere minutes before she was found.

The first stop was a large, ornately painted house; the door bright red, the trim work pale gold and the window sashes vivid blue. A cheerfully flamboyant sign, hanging from thick chains, proclaimed: _The Pleasure Palace, home of Maude and her Naughty Bawds. Ewell B. Schrood, proprietor_.

The first time Grace had seen the sign for the house of ill-repute, she'd laughed, assuming that Ewell B. Schrood was an alias. It was not. Ewell B. Schrood was from the Anderfels, a tall, well-favored man with extravagant brown hair and a thick brown mustache that drooped around a full, petulant mouth. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded and tended to wander in different directions during discourse, which Grace found disconcerting. Some considered him charming and humorous. She found him shrewd and oft times shrewish, but it couldn't be easy to run second best to The Blooming Rose year after thankless year, so she overlooked his acerbic tongue.

His business partner was his brother, Morely Schrood. He had a face not even a mother could love. He was tall and gaunt, pale as moonbeams and all gangly angles. His hair grew in dark clumps and he let the strands grow long enough that he could, with carefully contrived brushstrokes, cover each bald spot on his bony skull. His Adam's apple had a mesmerizing effect on anyone unfortunate enough to glance at it. Grace had once stood staring at it for ten full minutes, unable to tear her eyes away from it as it moved up and down his throat like a fishing bobber.

"Hawke! Buy a naughty bawd a drink?" Maude purred, wrapping herself around Grace like seaweed on driftwood.

To say that Maude had seen better days was charitable enough to buy one's way into the best accommodations the Beyond had to offer, Grace was sure. The woman had probably been one of Andraste's playmates, as old as she was, but she knew the trade and had a knack for finding the sweetest looking sweet cream ladies around. For some customers an innocent, lovely thing suddenly breaking into bawdy song and dance was an aphrodisiac beyond compare. Having spoken to many of the sweetly sweet women, Grace knew it was carefully applied make-up and playacting that created the innocence, but from a distance, with the low lighting, it was many a man's fantasy.

"I don't suppose Isabela is here today?" Grace asked, carefully unwinding the grand dame's ivy-esque hold on her.

"Not yet, but it's early for her. She's taken an interest in Merry Wynnsim," the woman confided, twining around Grace yet again, her fat, fake sausage curls bouncing exuberantly.

Once again disentangling herself, Grace glanced at the young woman who was standing by the bar, looking sweet and lissome. She blinked, glanced again, and then turned away, shocked to feel a blush creeping up her neck, offended by Varric's snicker.

"She could pass for you, Hawke," he commented, his voice carefully devoid of the humor that danced in his eyes. She was sure she could hear the furious scratching of his quill being set to parchment to capture the moment of her abashment. But not, she decided grimly, if she broke his wrists.

"Stubble it, Varric," she growled and turned on her heel, moving swiftly to the door and escape.

Serendipity was delighted to see Grace and Varric, her eyes dancing with innuendo as she looked from one to the other and back again. Even Varric began to blush at the masseuse unspoken invitation for the two of them.

When Grace firmly and finally made her reasons for the visit known, Serendipity's smile grew. "Check with Jethann. They were thick as thieves earlier, darling. You know how he is, such a delicious little gossip."

"That is most unfair of you, Serendipity, as I suspect he tattles no more than you do," Grace chided, moving reluctantly to the door. The tension in her back and neck were singing out for a massage by the gifted elf, but time was moving inexorably forward and the mystery of Isabela's behavior had yet to be solved.

"Yes, but in such a theatrical manner, my dear. He's so terribly _common_," Serendipity replied with a dainty shiver and a moue of disdain.

"Is that the indelicate voice of professional jealousy?" Grace asked with a soft _tsk_ of tongue and teeth.

"Certainly not, Grace, merely an observation. Or perhaps a warning for those less discerning. If I see Isabela is there a message?"

"An invitation, actually. Tell her that Leandra Hawke requests the pleasure of her company for tea and crumpets, not to mention a vintage bottle of Antivan brandy."

Jethann's face lit up when Grace entered his room, his eyes sassy in their exploration of her. "Well, if it isn't Bran Drummond's _dearest _friend!" he exclaimed with exaggerated delight. He tapped her arm playfully. "Slumming, Grace?"

"Why, Jethann, never say you consider yourself low company!" she exclaimed, shaking her head in mock sorrow.

"What else can I think when you visit Maude's bawds and Serendipity before me?" he asked, casting a woeful look at her before bursting into laughter and grabbing her in a surprisingly strong hug.

"Wretch. You know I always save the best for last!"

"And the best _always_ lasts," he replied with a suggestive thrust of his hips and hands.

In that moment, for the tiniest flick of time, Grace saw herself clearly, as if a mirror of truth had been held before her, stripping away the laughter and lightness and showing her how others saw her with pitiless honesty.

She was a hoyden, a hedonist … if she were a man she would be known as a rakehell, a libertine, a profligate. She sought and preferred the company of chanteuses, masseuses, strumpets and bawds. She had tried to sleep with most of her friends at one time or another and succeeded with more than she should have. She enjoyed the lusty life found in the Rusty Cock. Maker's curses, why had she not seen it before? As a woman, she was no lady.

Rather than casting her to the black depths of the Void, the revelation caused anger to skip along her skin like ants racing to spilled honey. She had never minded who and what she was before, accepting that her role as protector of all things Hawke had steered her toward the life of a hoyden. She knew that grief and failure had directed her to pleasurable pursuits because it was a way of feeling alive. By trying to conform to something she was not she was merely reminded of who she was.

Damn him! Damn Bran Drummond for deciding she needed to become a lady! With six weeks before the First Night Ball, she was as far from being a lady as Elthina was from being a harlot. She blinked and the vision of herself was gone, not even a dust mote left behind to remind her.

Without speaking, she turned and strode out of the room and down the stairs, not even offering her uncle her customary greeting. Without slowing down, she hurried along the cobblestones, completely unaware of the people around her, many of whom offered tentative greetings as she whirled past them with the speed and ferocity of a storm.

Bran was in his office, head bent over a stack of papers. He didn't look up when the door was thrown open with such vehemence that it slammed into the wall and rebounded, nearly catching her in the face, her grand entrance unappreciated. She stood in the doorway, dramatically posed with one hand to her breast and the other extended towards him, but only once the door had stopped swinging dangerously.

"Good morning, Grace," he remarked, signing a document with slow, deliberate strokes.

"You dastard! You verminous, vicious, vile villain!"

"Such exquisite alliteration, my dear, I commend you," he replied with maddening grace.

"Stand up and fight me like a man, damn your cowardly hide!"

"Perhaps I spoke in haste. That was far less alliterate, Lady Grace." A hint of a smile was quickly hidden from her as he bent over his papers again.

"I will not be patronized! Nor will I be disregarded, Brannagh Drummond!" she declared furiously, resisting the nearly overwhelming need to stamp her foot or box his ears. Maker, for something big and breakable to hurl at his head!

"I very much doubt that is possible," he replied dryly and raised his head again.

For a moment, Grace thought he had read her mind and she was sure he found her arrival vastly amusing. Yes, drat him, his lips were quirked and in another minute he would no doubt be laughing outright at her. The first small chink appeared in her righteous armor.

"What gave you the right? I was perfectly happy before you interfered!" she blazed.

"You cannot be happy unless you are unhappy at times," he supplied with perfect equanimity, seemingly content to offer her such pabulum.

She stared at him, snapping her mouth shut so quickly that her tongue very nearly became a victim of her teeth. She would be happy to show him unhappiness with both fists and perhaps a dagger. But, to her horror, and no doubt Bran's amazement, she found herself without her customary ability to reply. Finally, she threw herself gracelessly into a chair with a fulminating glare.

Long moments went by, the only sound in the room Grace's uneven breathing as her outrage began to waver.

"As much as I enjoy your company, I fear I have a great number of matters to attend to. A delegation of Qunari requested a meeting with the viscount. Imagine how scintillating I find such a request."

"I am more than willing to leave you to your precious work, Seneschal Bran, the very moment you explain why you felt compelled to destroy my happiness."

With careful precision Bran placed his quill aside and devoted his full attention to her, his concern apparent. "Tell me, my lovely lady, what has robbed your glorious cheeks of their roses and put you in such distress?"

"And now you will combine sarcasm with blatant flattery? There is no need to pour the butter boat over my head, Bran. I know quite well my complexion is not at its best when I am in temper. Some far less charitable people have reminded me that I grow quite mottled when infuriated."

A slight snicker turned into a cough and Bran rose, stepped around his desk, and pulled her gently to her feet. "What it is, Grace? What perfidy am I now to be charged with?"

Damn him for undermining her anger with tender humor! "I – I don't know why you wanted to change me, Bran. I was blissfully content not being a lady and equally joyous not realizing I wasn't!" she hissed with the sibilant grace of a snake.

He frowned, to his credit, and his arms wrapped gently around her. "Whoever deemed you less than a lady had best be prepared to meet me on the field of honor."

"Gammon! Do you think, for one moment, I would allow you to fight a duel over my honor or lack thereof?"

"Do you think, for one moment, I would consult you on such a matter? You find me so lacking in such abilities that you would unman me and fight for me? Have I not proven my skill with the sword to your satisfaction? Should my sword arm fail me, I feel sure I could overwhelm them with documents and legal patois."

She moved away from him, her fierce frown struggling to become a smile. "Do not turn this discussion from its intended course."

"I am not sure I ever understood its intended course. You are not happy and I am to blame. Have I the right of it? Is that not the root of all relationship issues?"

"Do not condescend in so derisive and dismissive a manner," she retorted, stung.

He threw his hands in the air and paced away from her. Her anger, the mantle she best understood when dealing with Bran, fell away from her, leaving her exposed and more than a little embarrassed. Really, she was the veriest gorgon, hurtling into his inner sanctum, hurling invectives at his unsuspecting head.

"I never asked to become a lady," she accused quietly.

"My dearest Grace, you haven't_ become_ a lady, you have always _been_ a lady. I have merely assisted in softening some of your delicious curves."

She hated him most when he was boyishly beguiling, flashing a smile that would tempt Andraste from the flames of martyrdom. It quite robbed her of her defenses and she felt an unwilling smile plucking resolutely at her lips. She forbade it. "I am hopelessly hoydenish."

"Are you? I had not thought you so. Next you will tell me you are a sad romp of a lady?"

"Am I not?"

"No, you are a lady who, having experienced the worst that life has to offer, pursues a more pleasant path. That is admirable, and not, as you seem to believe, disgraceful."

Her anger completely dissipated and she found herself the unwilling host of the smile that had plagued her so assiduously. "You will undoubtedly lose your bet for I am no more a lady than the Arishok."

"Speaking of the Arishok, I really must prepare these documents for the meeting. What wisdom can you share on the matter?"

With her anger quickly becoming lust, Grace edged towards the door and escape, unwilling to make herself any bigger a peahen than she already had. "They enjoy strong black coffee, those little ginger cookies that Cook Igoretta makes, and they detest sycophants. Oh, and do not, under any circumstances, take their weapons away. Fenris claims that their weapons house their souls."

A derisive snort of laughter rose and was quickly extinguished by another cough. "Even I am aware of that belief, Serah Hawke. I need no reminders of that first blunder." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, looking harassed and embarrassed. A great swelling of tenderness threatened to swamp her heart so she took another step towards the door and safety, hearing Bran's parting words as she closed the door quietly behind her.

"I shall trust to the Arishok's honorable intentions. If he wanted Marlowe's head, he would have taken it long ago."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Madame, I – that is to say – there is a – uhm – a lady here to see you," Bodahn stammered, his face an uncommon shade of red.

"Thank you, Bodahn, show her in, then bring a fresh pot of tea."

Grace set her teacup aside and stood. Smoothing down her periwinkle wool skirts, she gave her mother a quick grin. "I was sure the rare bottle of Antivan brandy would do the trick," she said with far more confidence than she had felt most of the afternoon as they had waited for Isabela.

"You are quite sure you can hear from the other room?"

"Quite sure, unless you allow her to face the painting of Great Uncle Philostein."

Leandra shuddered. "I really must remove that portrait and hope that his ghost does not take offense. Truly, have you ever seen such a unique combination of features?"

Having been to the Pleasure Palace, she was forced to admit she had, in fact, seen more unique features but she kept the specifics to herself. While her mother knew where she spent her time, Grace did not feel compelled to verbalize it. Instead, she went to the mantel and draped a casual arm along the polished mahogany, nearly upsetting the dainty shepherdess figurines that marched along its surface in search of lost sheep.

Seconds later, she had reason to be grateful for the mantelpiece as it kept her from falling over. Isabela swept into the room with the grace and dignity of a queen. Her dark hair was pulled into an intricate knot atop her head, adorned with small golden combs that were studded with amber and jade. Her gown was sumptuous watered silk, the color of a golden sunrise, cut modestly and falling like a well-mannered waterfall. Her jewelry was equally modest, a delicate gold chain around her neck with matching gold ear bobs, and her feet were encased in dainty black silk slippers. Her beauty, present even in her pirate garb, was now radiant.

Grace staggered to her chair, falling into it before her legs quit holding her up.

"Mouth, dear," her mother whispered, rising gracefully to greet Isabela. "I'm so glad you could join me, Lady Isabela. I apologize for the tardiness of my invitation."

Isabela, her bright brown eyes twinkling with mischief, curtsied as if she had been born to do so, and then stepped forward to exchange the obligatory bussing of the cheeks. "I really wish I could sketch, Grace. Your expression is priceless."

"Yes, run along now, Grace, you've quite put me out of countenance with your rag-tag manners. I was under the mistaken impression that I had raised you properly. Go on, off you go."

"But I –" Grace protested, so caught up in Isabela's transformation that she had forgotten the reason for the invitation.

"Not another word, Grace Amell Hawke, or I shall be sorely vexed! Truly, Isabela, is she always so shatter-brained in your company?"

"Always," Isabela assured with a grin.

Snapping her jaws together, Grace rose and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could. "Enjoy your tea and crumpets," she grumbled.

The only place she could actually hear the conversation in the next room was by standing inside the small broom closet located between the Afternoon Parlor and the Blue Room, named for the bright blue splashes of glassware that adorned an otherwise plain grey room. Grace wedged herself into the small closet and pressed her ear to the small hole cut into the wall by some ancestor long gone.

"How do you go on, Isabela?"

"Quite well, thank you, Lady Leandra."

"No, you must call me Leandra, dear. I feel we may be social equals, at the very least, though I suspect that you may, in fact, be my social superior."

"I'm a pirate and a brigand, Lady Leandra, nothing more. I married well, but not by choice, and he taught me how to dress and behave like a lady, and how to take a beating without crying. I taught him that cruelty had its own rewards."

Grace's surprise gave way to blurred vision as her tears gathered in preparation of falling.

"Well, if we are to be honest, my dear, then I can a confession to make. We have invited you here to interrogate you."

Grace gulped, a moment of panic seizing her. What was the woman doing? Had they not rehearsed how to best discover the secrets hidden in Isabela's strange avoidance of all things Qunari? She pushed her eye against the peephole and saw Isabela sitting in the chair directly across from her mother.

"Hardly surprising. I knew there had to be a reason for the invite. So, what do you want to know? How many men I've killed? Or how many slaves I've freed? Why do I prefer younger men? Why do I cheat at cards?"

Ah ha! Grace had always suspected Isabela of cheating at cards, but had never been able to catch her at it. _May she be thrice cursed by the Maker!_

"… don't recall why I did it now," Isabela was saying and Grace cursed herself for not paying attention. "But he didn't laugh quite so loud hanging upside down on the mizzenmast."

"Do you suppose he truly meant to be caught with his ah … in that indelicate state of undress?"

"No doubt, Leandra. The minute a man gets that cocksure is the moment he's lost any credibility with me."

"Yes, quite so, dear. Now, tell me, where did you learn to sing? Grace tells me that you are quite gifted and that you and Anders are very popular at the Rusty Cock."

Laughter spilled out of Isabela and she set her teacup down to indulge in it. "Sorry, Lady L, but the words 'Rusty Cock' coming from you are –" Isabela sailed off into another gale of laughter. Finally, she brought her mirth under control.

"Would you care for a drop of brandy in that tea, dear?"

"You know it will take more than a drop to get me to talk, right?"

"Of course, but I'm enjoying your company and have no desire to end your visit quickly."

"Drop away," Isabela invited with a gracious wave of her hand. "As for singing, well, that's a long, boring story but it ends with me singing for my supper and later for a ship. Amazing what one can do with one's mouth when given the proper incentive."

Here Isabela winked broadly and Grace's eye, pressed tightly against the peephole boggled slightly as her mother returned the wink. Grace wasn't sure she would ever recover from this day's discoveries.

"I can't imagine why you remain in somewhere as dull as Kirkwall. I know your ship was lost, but surely with your talents you could captain another ship easily enough."

"Not without capital. Besides, Castillon will only chase me down and demand it. Until I find a way to stop him … oh, these crumpets are delicious, Leandra. You should try them soaked in brandy and covered in clotted cream."

"You must leave the recipe with Orana, it sounds lovely."

Grace's back groaned as she continued to hunch over, listening for one clue, one tiny hint, about why Isabela wouldn't visit the Qunari compound. She was becoming disillusioned with her mother's interrogation skills, which had always been remarkably good when dealing with her daughter. Apparently that did not make one universally adept at it.

"Grace mentioned that you absolutely refuse to visit the Qunari. I can't blame you as I find them quite repellent with their brute strength and mysterious Qun fits and starts. I wish you would convince her to do the same, Isabela. I can't quite trust them not to hurt her."

Grace's eye swiveled to Isabela, whose face wore a teasing grin. "Grace never listens to me, not even in song choices. Or are you really trying to figure out why I avoid the horny devils?"

To her credit, Leandra finished her sip of tea, added a rather large dollop of brandy to both her cup and Isabela's and spoke calmly. "Are they horny devils? I cannot say that I have seen more than the one Qunari caged in Lothering before our hasty retreat from that village. He had no horns that I recall, if that was your intimation?"

Isabela snickered and reached for the bottle, tipping another splash into her cup. "Oh, right, I remember that fellow. A Sten of the Beresaad as I recall. Big fellow with no sense of humor, but a love for sweets. Traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. I met him in Denerim and he was an old grouch. I tried to talk him into a bit of bump and grind action but he was busy casting moonstruck gazes at his Kadan. Did manage to get the Hero and her fellow Warden to come tangle in the sheets with me though."

"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaimed, standing in the open doorway of the broom closet, beaming brightly.

Grace gasped in surprise and then clapped a hand over her mouth, eye darting wildly to Isabela, whose smile threatened to cover her entire face. Damn and double damn! She'd been caught out like the veriest green girl! What a day for missteps! She pounded her forehead against the wall repeatedly, but not with any great zeal.

"Give it up, Hawke. You excel in a lot of areas, some of which I won't mention out of respect for your mother, but being stealthy is so not one of them."

With growing trepidation, Grace watched, one-eyed, as Isabela rose and stalked to the peephole. "Boo!" the pirate exclaimed merrily. Grace was grateful for the dark closet as she felt an unusual blush flood her from toes to the roots of her hair.

"I bungled this whole thing, didn't I?" she said, placing her mouth against the hole as she spoke. Isabela leaned forward and planted a kiss on the peephole, causing Grace to bang her head on the low ceiling of the broom closet in her surprise, which led her to uttering a few well-chosen curses.

"Enchantment?" Sandal asked dubiously, his smile faltering.

Isabela roared with laughter. "You and your cohort in crime! Come out and share some tea and crumpets and tell me what this is really about. As if I didn't know. Talk nice and I'll get your mother to share the brandy."

Grace stepped out of the closet and made her way into the room, feeling out of charity with Sandal, her mother and the man on the moon.

"I must say, Mother, I am quite disappointed in you. If you were to make such an argle-bargle of interrogating me I wouldn't be so quick to give up the information."

"Well, dear, I think I can be forgiven for being less than stellar today, given Isabela's skill at diversionary tactics. Besides, she's a clever baggage and will, no doubt, see her way clear to answering direct questions."

"Ha! The woman is the best dissimulator I have ever met. Trust me, if she means not to divulge information, she will not."

"Now, Hawke, you know there's one way to get me to do it," Isabela teased suggestively.

"Isabela!" Grace gasped, the burn of her earlier blush coming to haunt her cheeks again. She ignored it, continuing in a softer tone, "You know that I love you but not in that way."

"Right, right. I know which side of the deck you patrol. Besides, now that you're besotted with Bran you don't look at anyone else anymore anyway."

"I do so look!"

"Fine, you look, but not with the same … verve that you used to."

"Why is this conversation about me? Mother! Control this tea party. Please."

Leandra calmly drank her brandy-laced tea, smiling indulgently at the two younger women, which made Grace feel as if she was ten years old again and in trouble for teasing the twins. Without a word, she skulked to a chair and sat down.

"So, why did I get invited to tea with the Hawkes? I mean really? Not that it's not fun to play dress-up now and then."

Sulky and ungracious, Grace gulped her tea and scowled at her friend. "What are you hiding from the Qunari?"

"Me," Isabela replied. "They want something that I no longer have. Since I can't give them what I don't have, I avoid them. Simple as that."

"Simple? It isn't simple at all. Mother, hand me that brandy. Now, Isabela, what is it that … oh! Oh, I know! It's that relic you mentioned when we first met, isn't it?"

Isabela calmly downed her tea and then poured a cupful of brandy for herself. "It is. And the relic is some book of theirs. The Tome of Cousins or something and they want it back. Yesterday. If I had it, I'd give it back, but I don't, which means they want to pluck my eyes from my face, or something like that. I can't quite recall the Arishok's exact words, I was too busy running for my life. I had no idea those boys weren't interested in having any kind of fun at all.

Memories of that first meeting filtered through her brandy-laced brain. "The shipwreck? It wasn't just a fluke, was it?"

"Not unless you call a dreadnaught up my tail a fluke."

"And the reason that the Arishok is here has nothing to do with waiting for his countrymen to come and rescue him, does it?"

"Maybe? Damn it, Hawke, I don't know for sure, but I can't find the relic and when I do, I can use it to buy a new ship and crew, so don't think I'm not busy trying to find it. If the Qunari know I'm here, they'll do really nasty things to me. Really nasty."

"Of course they know you're here, Isabela. They may be insular, but they aren't blind to what goes on in Kirkwall."

Isabela, in the act of reaching for the brandy, drew her hand back and glared at Grace. "Thanks for yanking the wool from my eyes, Grace. I kind of enjoyed being able to sleep at night."

"As if that is your activity of choice at night."

"Ladies, if you please, let us focus on the subject at hand. If you were to find the relic, Isabela, would you return it to the Arishok, given the right incentive?"

"If by incentive you mean a ship and money for a crew, yes. Anything less does me no good."

"Mother, our coffers are not that deep!" Grace protested in the same breath.

"No, but the city of Kirkwall's coffers are. I am sure that we can bring Marlowe around to such a reward if it rids the city of the Qunari."

"From your mouth to the Maker's ears," Isabela muttered. "And what makes you think we can find it? It's not like I've been twiddling and diddling for the past three years."

Grace wisely refrained from comment, choosing instead to stand and pace the room. "If we work together, we should be able to find it. Oh! That's why you were seen with Stynkham and Kyrfuffle! That's a relief. I knew even your standards weren't … oh look, Mother, more crumpets!"

After the crumpets were deposited and Orana departed, Grace turned to Isabela. "Why didn't you even ask for help?"

Isabela had the grace to look away and, to Grace's surprise, the pirate remained silent. It was her mother who spoke up, her voice clearly a chastisement. "She lost all those who held her secret, Grace. Why would she risk telling others she cared about? Honestly, dear, you are so mutton-headed at times I wonder whose child you truly are."

"Thank you for that, Mother. For one brief and shining moment I almost thought highly of myself," Grace replied dryly. "Now," she continued, coming to place her arm around her friend, "tell me the whole sordid tale and we'll go find the Tome of Costly Mistakes, shall we?"

"No, absolutely not, Hawke. I don't want your mother yapping at me about her daughter. No offense, Leandra."

"None taken, dear, but she's quite good at solving mysteries, all evidence to the contrary. Do let her assist you and I'll personally speak to the viscount about recompensing you for your efforts on behalf of Kirkwall. What say you?"

"Just agree, Isabela, and save us an hour or more of genteel cajoling on Mother's part. You know we have a great deal of fun together and just think of the rumors that will start when we are seen to be in each other's hip pockets!"

When Isabela still didn't respond, Grace grinned, squeezing Isabela's shoulders. "Besides, what could possibly go wrong?"

**A/N:** _Pouring a butter boat over someone meant heavily flattering someone and from it came the term buttering someone up. _  
_Thank you for the wonderful reviews, the favorites and the follows. It's so rewarding to know people are enjoying the story._


	19. Game of Tomes

**A/N: **_This chapter wasn't beta'd so any mistakes, and I'm sure there are plenty, are my own. Additionally, this chapter is dedicated to Oleander's One. You're in my thoughts and in my heart!  
_

**Game of Tomes**

"What could possibly go wrong? I might just as well have called the Maker's bride a buck-toothed barque of frailty for I'm surely thrice cursed now," Grace muttered glumly.

To her relief, other than a sideways glance from an old beggar and a wide-eyed look from Sister Bettina, who wandered the docks day in and day out searching for those in true need, nobody paid her words the least heed. As she was dressed like a char woman, complete with a huge mobcap and greasy grey wig, she wasn't in the least concerned with being identified by the doxies or disreputable denizens of the docks.

She was, as she had planned, the last to arrive at the worn out warehouse that was home to a few broken crates, the odd spider or two and a tattered pamphlet on the merits of baling cotton. As soon as the door snapped closed behind her, she gave the group a sassy grin, showing off her blackened teeth, the appearance of which made it seem as if she had lost a goodly number of them.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all together," she stated in her normal voice, enjoying the shock as displayed by her friends and cohorts in crime.

When Varric stopped laughing at her, he handed her a cup of brandy-laced tea and shrugged. "I'm not sure why you did, but it was worth the price of admission to see you in that wig," he assured her around a final snort of laughter.

She allowed the merriment to die down and then turned to Fenris. "If someone accidently appropriated a prized possession of the Qunari, what would the Qunari do upon its return?"

"Why? Have you accidently appropriated a prized possession?" Fenris asked, although his gimlet gaze was not directed at Grace but at Isabela, who discovered the wonders of cotton baling if her fascination with the pamphlet was to be believed.

All eyes fastened on the Rivaini pirate and she flung the pamphlet away, her long legs propelling her from the crate she'd been resting on to take her across the dusty floor in agitated strides. She cast Grace a malevolent glare and continued her peregrination about the room.

Grace explained, in a remarkably short time and with remarkably few interruptions, the predicament Isabela found herself in, as well as the simmering hatred of a few templars, Mother Petrice and some Chantry zealots, who seemed intent on starting a war with the Qunari. Grace's hope was to eliminate both problems with one brilliantly orchestrated flimflam. Time, of course, would determine if it was brilliant or brainless, a thought she kept carefully to herself.

By the time she had finished expounding on the idea the ring of people surrounding her wore various expressions of doubt and incredulity, which did not bode well for her self-confidence. Only Varric seemed to understand what she wanted; he wore a prodigious grin, which Grace found reassuring. The others seemed wary of it. Or maybe, she thought with a smile tugging at her lips, they were wary of her plan. So be it.

"But Grace, none of us speak Qunari … Qunarese? … or at least I don't think any of us do … maybe Fenris could say a few … but he can't read and I don't … can we … what I mean is … oh I …"

"Merrill, you're blutherbunging," Grace chided gently, reaching across the table and patting the Dalish elf's small-boned hand. "One thought at a time, please."

"She does have a point, Hawke. This is much too complicated a plan for some people," Aveline remarked with that implacability that made Grace want to gnash her teeth while pelting the redhead with limp and overripe vegetation. She could dampen the spirits of Andraste with her pedantic, oft-times ponderous, pronouncements, Grace grumbled to herself.

"By the time those nodcocks figure it out, the real Tome will be in the hands of the Qunari," she finally replied with great strength of will, her fingers now curled and placed in her lap, away from prying eyes. They didn't need to see her frustration with Aveline.

"Ach, Grace, I dinna think we'll succeed, lassie." A hiccup followed the grave pronouncement.

Tittering cut across the silence that Sebastian's words provoked and Grace looked up, affixing a steel-eyed glare at Isabela, who was sniggering. "Honestly, Isabela, such juvenescent behavior."

"What? What did I do?" the pirate asked, her liquid whiskey-hued eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"Do you mean other than adding brandy to his tea?" Grace asked, pointing at Sebastian, who was flushed and flustered.

"A mere drop. Or perhaps a dollop? I don't know, Anders nudged my arm, Hawke, it wasn't my fault."

"Hawke is correct, Isabela. We strive to extricate you from the Qunari, yet you will not take their threat seriously. Have I not explained the consequences you will suffer for your act of thievery?" Fenris asked, his voice entirely too patient. One might even say dangerously so, if one knew him, Grace thought.

Isabela rolled her eyes but gave a quick jerk of her head, a testament to the veracity of his words, Grace hoped, although the woman's next words seemed to belie that. "But I want to help!" Isabela finally admitted, her voice a suggestive purr that hovered on obscene. Sebastian actually blushed at her tone, even though her words were directed at Grace, who suspected they were meant to placate Fenris. She refused to look at the white-haired elf.

"You will help us by becoming a rusticating ruricolist," Grace assured the pirate, forcing herself to relax her tense muscles and smile. Getting her group of friends to do anything other than drink at the Rusty Cock was like herding moonbeams into a cave.

"Oh! I like that. Is it dangerous? Will I have to dress up? Seduce someone?"

"It means you will be cooling you heels in the country," Anders piped up, grinning. "Can't see you enjoying that."

"No, I bloody well won't!" the pirate agreed, her volume rising as she turned a ferocious glare on Grace.

"If this plan is going to work, you'll need to be somewhere safe." Grace paused for effect, and then continued with a grim little grin, "Unless, of course, you want to be absorbed into the Qunari collective."

"Ewww, that sounds particularly revolting, Hawke. But I'll be lonely all by my lonesome in the country."

"Actually, I had thought to send my mother and the boys with you."

"Boys?" Isabela asked with a definite chirp in her voice.

"Saemus Dumar and Keir Drummond," Grace replied, instilling as much censure in her voice as she could.

"Oh, you _really_ mean boys," Isabela sighed, her disappointment darkening her eyes.

"I do, and my mother as chaperone, so I suggest bringing along a good book or two."

"Will she nae corrrrrupt them, Grrrrace?" Sebastian asked, eyeing his empty cup morosely.

"Not with my mother there. You can teach them Piquant and Wicked Grace, Isabela, and by Wicked Grace I mean the card game not wild or wicked stories about me," Grace added.

"You remember how Royston Throckmorton called you an old maiden lady with stiff skirts?" Isabela asked, her eyes narrowed into slits. "He was right."

Grace grinned, unrepentant and unperturbed. "Thank you and thank old Throckmorton when you see him again, which will be two weeks from now."

"Can we at least have a drunken revelry before I leave? Maybe a trip to the 'you know where' so we can carouse a bit?"

"If by 'you know where' you mean the Rusty Cock, it's closed for repairs," Aveline said with a certain amount of triumph in her voice.

"What? Why? And how do you know that's what I meant?"

"Oh please. I wouldn't be much of a guard captain if I didn't know what went on in town. And don't think for a minute that I want to join you in that den of iniquity because I don't," Aveline growled, glaring at Grace, who felt as low as a bug clinging to the underside of a blade of grass.

"Where? Oh, am I missing … you don't suppose it really is a rusty … it isn't as if I … oh dear, Sebastian snores. Who would have guessed? Although with his beaky nose I should have supposed … Grace, where is this place?"

"Merrill, we'll talk about that later and you're right … tip Sebastian forward a bit. It's surprising that such a loud and unpleasant noise doesn't bring the Maker's gaze back to us," Grace snickered, before bringing the meeting to a conclusion.

An hour later, she was arguing with her mother.

"Take the boys and Isabela to Marlowe's estate near Pelham? That would be very forward, do you not think?"

"It isn't an estate, Mother," Grace began with more forbearance than she believed herself capable of. "It's a small hunting lodge so there's no need to feel as if you're encroaching or forward."

"Encroaching, dear? I don't believe I intimated such a thing. Are you insinuating such a thing? Really, Grace! I find I am quite out of countenance with you."

Grace sighed gustily. "Mother, you have oft remarked upon the fact that I have such colorful adventures - with no small amount of envy in your voice, I might add - and now that I'm offering you a chance to participate in one you drag your heels. I admit to a sliver of irritation."

"Hiding in a hunting lodge with two young boys and Isabela hardly seems an adventure, dear."

"That's because you aren't looking at it in the proper light, my dear Mama. You are spiriting two handsome young men and a pirate out of a city that is on the brink of war. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to protect them against those who would seek to harm them, never knowing who might discover the secret you seek to hide, nor what foul creatures might attack at any moment." Grace shivered as she finished speaking, throwing her mother a look guaranteed to melt a grave robber's heart.

With a fond smile, her mother patted Grace's head and offered her a biscuit. "Really, dear, your acting is excessive and fanciful, but if Marlowe does not mind our staying in his lodge, I'll pack and be ready to leave in an hour."

"Brava, Mama! You have my undying gratitude."

"Make sure it stays that way," her mother replied darkly and then abruptly left the room, her scent – lavender and vanilla – trailing behind her.

Grace was just about to follow her mother and change into something less deplorable when Bodahn cleared his voice and announced a visitor. "Seneschal Bran, my lady," he said, his voice filled with trepidation.

"Seneschal Bran is here?"

"Would he announce my visit if I were absent?" asked the man in question, his voice dry.

His smile faded when his eyes came to rest on her costume and his mouth was too stubborn to hang open, Grace knew, but she saw the effort it took for him to keep it closed. She took great joy in the process, and her own smile blossomed and began to bloom brightly at his continued silence.

"Was there a particular reason for your visit, Seneschal Bran? Would you care for a dish of tea?" she asked, her voice as sweet and cloying as honeysuckle. Really, she was a complete hand.

He blinked and his features rearranged themselves into a condescending smile, but his eyes were alight with mischief, which quickened her traitorous heart. "Yes, please, and fetch your mistress, if you please."

Her eyes narrowed and she stuck her hip out, hand resting on it, and tilted her chin high in the air. "Oi don't fetches peoples, serah, no Oi don'ts. Oi'm a good girl, Oi am, and don't rightly take orders from nobodies. Got me own business, and Oi'm gonta be a lady one day, just you wait an' see!"

Bran's lips twitched and seemed to curve into a smile despite his best efforts and she gave him a large, theatrical wink. "You impossible baggage, what harum-scarum plan have you hatched now?" he asked, his smile growing until she felt compelled to kiss those curved lips. He returned the favor and then jumped back, his fastidiousness offended by the black gummy substance on her teeth.

"What foul poison have you devised, Lady Grace?" he demanded, removing a handkerchief and scrubbing assiduously at his lips.

"Ewww, ye scurvy git, them's my teeth, them is!"

"I have entered my worst nightmare," he groaned, taking another step away. "Seriously, Grace, what machinations have you contrived that you would attire yourself in the raiment of the worst guttersnipe and then parade about Hightown with all the haughty pretentions of a grand duchess?"

"For your own peace of mind, do not quiz me, Bran, please. Only tell me that Viscount Dumar has granted my requests."

Bran's face went still, as if he had just remembered something very unpleasant. As she watched, she saw the moment his anger at her returned as his expression became inscrutable. And cold. Grace felt a vague sense of unease, which was immediately clarified and intensified by Bran's icy question. He was angry, but it was an anger born of hurt, she saw and hardened her heart. She did not need to feel guilty for doing what she had always done in the past without his approval. She did not. Yet the guilt was already creeping into her, slithering into her blood and bone. Damn him!

"Do you suppose you might condescend to confide in me as the viscount's seneschal, since you seem incapable of doing so as my lover?"

She winced, refusing to be cowed by his icy anger, even though a small part of her agreed he had a right to both his anger and his hurt. "You were not in your customary location when first I met with the viscount. I cannot be expected to search the premises for your acknowledgement of my presence. How lowering."

"How very incautious of you, Grace. And cruel. Have we progressed so far and no farther that you would ill-use me in so high-handed a manner?"

"Ill-use you? How, may I inquire, did I ill-use you?"

Bran raised a brow, patent disbelief in his expression and stance, but remained silent. Grace, feeling like the veriest irredeemable blackguard, straightened her spine and took a step closer to Bran.

"If you wish to view my behavior as a personal affront then I cannot dissuade you. However, I did not behave in such a fashion so as to provoke or otherwise cause undue perturbations. I am attempting to avert a war, so forgive me if your sensibilities have been offended."

"In so dangerous a manner that you seek to send your mother and my son to a safe harbor, yet you didn't seek to provide such information to me. Could it be that you knew I would be opprobrious of such plans as you have devised?"

Anger at herself metamorphosed into a denouncement of Bran's guilt-inducing words. "If I considered it dangerous do you not think I would have attempted to send the viscount out of the city, as well? Would I not insist on your accompanying him? Am I to wear a ring through my nose so that you can, without exertion, fetch me to your side at a moment's notice?"

Bran struck a thoughtful pose, as if pondering such an action and then, after a moment, nodded judiciously. "A nose ring may be the very thing. That way, Serah Hawke, when you behave in such a manner in the future, you will not get lost when your head has become lodged up –"

"Upon my honor, I wasn't expecting guests. How delightful of you to stop by, Bran. I've asked for tea and those maple scones you love so well. Do come and sit, while Grace removes that disgraceful costume of hers."

Saved by the bell-like tones of her mother, who swept into the room with divine grace and warmth, Grace thought, removing herself posthaste. By the time she returned, wearing an afternoon tea-gown of pale peach, Bran was gone. Her mother, after a shake of her head to express her displeasure, went back to packing for her stay in the country. Grace spent the afternoon writhing in guilt and pretending otherwise.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**One week later …**

The week since her mother's departure had been filled with reconnoitering, sleuthing, and muckraking. Grace had neither seen nor heard from Bran, pretending it didn't matter and avoiding her home in favor of her room in the Hanged Man. She decided to forego her weekly visit with Serendipity, knowing the elf with the magic hands would notice something amiss.

Now, after a week's worth of snooping and sneaking, the plan was about to enter its final phase. Grace, who was dressed like a dockside doxy, and Anders, who was dressed in shabby gentility, stood propped against the massive oak bar. The din rose to new heights as another group of longshoremen poured into the Lucky Frog, a tavern whose ale was often compared to frog waste. Grace had no desire to taste either their ale or a frog's urine for comparison so she usually avoided the dilapidated old tavern except in the line of duty.

The sign for the tavern hung on for dear life to a rusted and bent old chain, the frog now a soft, weathered green as it swung with lopsided cheerfulness. Having seen her fair share of frogs, thanks in large part to Carver's odd sense of humor, she could swear frogs weren't capable of such unrestrained glee.

Or perhaps the frog was meant to look inebriated? If so, and taking into consideration the odd angle of said sign as well as the drunken grin on the faded frog, Grace thought a more appropriate name for the drinking establishment would be the Tipsy Toad, but she held that thought to herself. Perhaps she'd send Varric around to assess the feasibility of purchasing, and then renaming, the tavern. Not that she actually needed another such place, but the challenge of rehabilitating it was nigh impossible to resist.

Frowning, she leaned forward, resting her head against Anders's broad chest and strained to hear the conversation between One-Eyed Stynkham and Asiago Diego Rodrigo Enrico De Fuego, a pirate with a short temper and a shorter wick, according to Isabela. To his credit he had a long, well-groomed mustache and thick dark hair neatly braided and worn over his left shoulder. The rest of him looked decidedly misanthropic and nefarious.

He was a reputed member of the Felicisima Armada, known as the Raiders for reasons not obvious to Grace. He was also alleged to be the right hand of Castillon, the Antivan pirate whom Isabela had once worked for and who seemed to want her back for more than just the money she owed him.

"I thought you said you had the Tome, little man. You lie?" Asiago asked, a threat implicit in his tone.

"No, no! I said I _knew_ where it was, not that I had it," One-Eyed assured him hastily.

"Where is it?"

"If I tell you, I'm as good as dead. Gooder, maybe."

"Tell me now … before you become known as No-Eyed Stynkham," the pirate threatened, towering over the cowering Stynkham.

"Oh, all right, but my death'll be on your head."

"I can live with that. Now talk."

One-Eyed shifted from foot to foot, his good eye darting around the tavern like a nervous butterfly. Sighing, he muttered, "Fingers Sondheim has it. Reckons to counterfeit the blamed thing and sell a few copies afore he's caught out. You ain't the only one who's looking for it, don't you know."

The elf behind the bar, busily wiping out a tankard with a greasy rag, was dressed in plain black clothes, save for a white shirt beneath his jerkin, looking almost prosperous in the shabby suit. His hair, a deep, flat black, was scraped back from his forehead, and his face had an odd, waxy sheen to it. He glanced casually at Grace and then across the room before rubbing the side of his nose briefly and going back to his greasy rag and tankard.

Grace moved closer to the pirate, her laughter as raucous as she could manage. She flashed a broad smile and a saucy wink at the pirate.

"'Ere now, handsome, I'll get to ye in good turn," she said, a cheerful promise in her voice.

"Go away, you hag-toothed slut," he ordered.

"Hey, watch how you talk about fair Ambergris!" Anders said in a drunken drawl, raising his fists and striking a pose. "Don't listen to him, Amber," he consoled, patting her padded rump with a leer.

"Bah, the only thing fair about her is her price, I'd wager!" the pirate barked, his pride in his jest as evident as it was obnoxious.

Grace growled low in her throat and reached for the bottle of brandy she had been sharing with Anders. "'Ere now, I don't go around insultin' you even iffen your mustache looks like some rat crawled onto yer face and died," she shot back at the pirate.

"Take this bitch away before she has no teeth, hagged or otherwise!" De Fuego snarled, his eyes cold and ruthless.

"Why you – " she began and then gave a shrill whistle, using her fingers and 'hagged' teeth. A group of longshoremen gathered round and she pointed to him. "This 'ere toff just insulted me, boys! What say we give 'im some of 'is own, eh?"

The brawl that ensued involved the entire bar except for one lone dwarf tucked away in the dark recesses of the establishment. He moved quietly through the shadows and spoke briefly to the bartender before drifting out of the tavern.

Grace watched him go and then turned to bring her elbow up into the exposed throat of Asiago Diego Rodrigo Enrico De Fuego, watching him clutch his windpipe like a rooster with his cock knocked crooked before she ducked to avoid a bottle of brandy that went flying gracefully end over end across the tavern to smash against a wall.

Anders, a blue glow growing around him, was turning in circles trying to pry a dwarf off his back, becoming more frustrated by the moment, and Grace leaned close to him, to calm him, saying only, "You owe me, Junders," before grabbing the dwarf by his long black beard and tugging him into her fist.

"Stop! In the name of the city guards, I order you to cease and desist!"

"What? 'Ere now, I don't listen to no gingersnaps!" Grace yelled, dropping to her knees and beginning to crawl in the direction of the door as Aveline and her guards poured into the tavern. Donnic Hendyr bent down and picked her up as if she was made of mattress ticking.

"See 'ere now, don't ye be owin' me some blunt for the last visit, dearie?" she bellowed at him and he winked, setting her down with a shake and stern warning not to continue practicing her trade during a bar fight.

Before she could make good her escape, she was taken into custody. "Best take that feller too, 'e's the one what started this 'ere fight!" she exclaimed, pointing a finger at De Fuego, who was trying to shake off two guardsmen, a toothless old sailor and a buxom lady of ill repute.

"You little bitch!" he howled, moving towards her, carrying his refugees with him.

"Owwww, Oi'm a lady, Oi am!" she shrieked over her shoulder as she was led away.

They were tossed into various cells deep in the bowels of Viscount Keep and she huddled into her corner, hoping Bran wouldn't choose that moment to inspect the dungeons. That seemed a reasonable enough hope considering it was after midnight and the dungeons were as far away from the offices of the viscount as the earth from the moon. With a groan of protesting muscles, she sank into her corner, pulled her tattered blanket closer and waited to be released.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**8 hours later…**

"You're Fingers Sondheim?" De Fuego asked with no small amount of disbelief and disgust in his voice. He sported a black eye, two chipped teeth, a bruised jaw and a thinned mustache, Grace noted with no small amount of glee.

The dwarf glanced up from his work with a grin. "That's right, who's asking?" he inquired, flexing his digits and leaning back in his chair.

"Asiago Diego Rodrigo Enrico De Fuego, the right hand of Captain Castillon. I am here to recover what was taken from me," the pirate announced with grandiose aplomb.

"Uh huh, well, Asiago Diego blah blah blah, you're in my light. Step aside. And you, Lila Bit, get some rum for me and my friend!"

Grace, dressed in a faded workman's shirt and soft wool trousers that might have been new during the Storm Age, bobbed her way out of the room, where she grabbed a bottle of Blue Ruin Rum. Anders stepped out of the shadows, took out a small phial and poured the contents into the rum. With a wink and a nod, he disappeared and Grace heard a door click shut a moment later.

"Master," she said, bobbing herself back into the room. She handed the bottle to the dwarf and rubbed the side of her nose briefly, before resuming her station on the floor near her bucket and scrub brush.

"I am here for the Tome of Koslun and not the counterfeit ones, you dwarven mongrel!"

"Mongrel? I'll have you know, serah, that my ancestors can trace their line back to the first king of Orzammar."

"The tome, dwarf. Now."

"Sure, right after you hand over five hundred sovereigns, bucko."

"You have two choices, Fingers. Bring me the tome nicely or do it after I've broken each finger. Twice."

The dwarf looked down at his fingers, wiggled them, flexed them again and then sighed heavily. "Fine, fine. It will take my assistant some time to procure it. I'm not stupid enough to keep it on the premises."

Frowning, the pirate stared at Grace, whose dark hair was braided and wound around her head like a coronet. Artful dashes of a paintbrush gave it broad streaks of grey and she wore heavy greasepaint that made her complexion pale and insipid. She looked like any other servant the world over.

"Lila Bit, go get the damned book and be quick about it, you useless twit."

"Master will pay for that remark," she whispered grimly as she made her way out of the room.

When she returned, she carried a large book that was encased in a jewel-encrusted metal cover. It weighed as much as a baby varterral, she was sure. She plunked it down on the desk and then waited. It took only a moment for De Fuego's head to loll to one side as he drifted into sleep.

A young Dalish elf entered the room as Grace scooped up the priceless relic and scampered out of the room. She placed the tome into the hands of a white-haired elf and then grabbed up the counterfeit tome. When she reentered the room, the elf gave a nod and tapped the side of her right ear and then stopped, shook her head with a giggle and rubbed the side of her nose, before disappearing into the shadows.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**8 hours later …**

"Sebastian Vael, you snake in the grass! How could you do this to me?" Grace raged.

"Cut line, Grace. You never had the good of the Chantry in your heart, never had the least love for the Maker. Without such dedication there can be no Princess of Starkhaven. You have only to show your piety and devotion to reclaim my adoration and rule beside me."

Grace, a paroxysm of tears shuddering through her, accepted his handkerchief and wept copiously into it. "Anything, dearest Sebastian, anything," she sobbed.

Sebastian, face flushed and eyes full of genuine contrition, began to shake his head. "I cannot do … Ouch!" he finished on a yelp of pain as her foot and his shin met.

Grace, aware of Mother Petrice's presence in the narthex, threw herself at Sebastian, shoulders shaking with the force of her tears, her voice low and cold. "If you ruin this by claiming the higher moral ground I will skewer you with my dullest, rustiest blade," she threatened and let out a wail of despair.

"Now, now, dear Grace, a mere token to demonstrate your devotion and all will be well."

Grace stepped away and began to pace, her hands gathered in her skirts. "I – I hesitate to share this knowledge, but if it means we shall be together again as we ought, then I will do so. I have the sacred book of the Qunari. No! Do not ask where I obtained it, dearest heart, for it is a sad, sordid tale. I shall place it in your hands as a sign of my love for you and for the Chantry."

"A singular honor, Grace, a noble demonstration of your devotion. I await it eagerly."

Grace nodded, hurrying from the narthex and down the steps, her triumphant smile tucked away as she passed the maniacal Mother Petrice. Within moments she was home and carefully extracting the sacred tome from the wall safe, Bodahn clucking worriedly in the background.

"Lady Grace, I am worried about – "

"Everything is fine, Bodahn, and it won't be long before this is all over. I'll see you this evening!"

With that she was out the door and on her way again. Once the book was in Sebastian's safe keeping, she melded into the shadows and waited. It wasn't long before Ser Varnell, Mother Petrice's sniveling templar, came up the steps at a half-trot. Grace stepped out of the shadows, rubbed the side of her nose, then sank back into the darkness.

A tall, blond-haired man, dressed in the robes of a brother, mounted the steps with due gravity and circumspection, his head bowed, his hands clasped before him. An air of piety clung to him and several sisters nodded serenely as he passed by. Moments later he left the Chantry and stood, poised, on the top step before briefly touching the side of his nose and departing.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**The following morning …**

Grace, Fenris and Varric at her side, strode through the Qunari compound and demanded an audience with his great benevolent self, the Arishok. "Let me do the talking, Hawke. You will only bring his wrath down upon our heads."

"Thank you, Fenris. That didn't sting a bit. I appreciate your perspicacity."

"Truly, Hawke?" he asked, understandably surprised by her cheerful concurrence.

"Not a bit of it, Fennie," she replied, watching him wince at her use of his dreaded nickname. "I'll speak for this group, as I have always done."

"Sure, what could go wrong with that?" Varric asked and then ducked as she playfully swatted at him.

"Shanedan, Serah Hawke."

"Good morning, Arishok. I've heard the most interesting story and I felt compelled to share it with you."

"The Qunari people do not share stories, Serah Hawke, it is a frivolous pursuit."

"Oh my, then the location of an important sacred artifact, which is at the heart of the story, would not be of any great import," Grace said in disappointment.

Mouth downturned and thinned, the Arishok intoned, "Your childish display does not impress me. Speak and be gone."

"It would seem, Arishok, that a certain vitriolic mother of the Chantry has possession of a Qunari holy relic which is reputed to be the Tome of Koslun. In fact, I have learned that she and her templar guard have hidden it in an abandoned house in Lowtown. I'm sure you wouldn't want the address of it or anything."

"You may leave now, Serah Hawke. I suggest you depart quickly."

Grace blinked. "That's it? No gratitude? Perhaps a token of your esteem and affection?"

A ferocious frown covered the Arishok's entire face and Fenris gripped her arm. He bowed once and then pulled her along as he walked slowly from the compound, wincing as the gate slammed behind them.

"That went well!" she proclaimed with a cheerful grin.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**That night ...**

"Wow, Hawke, that's a different look for you!" Varric whistled.

Grace grinned, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder and reaching for a blue scarf. "It's all padding, wigs, make-up, believe me," she said, waving at her remarkably curvaceous chest that was nearly falling out of its white sailing shirt. Her skin was dusky, made so by a combination of tea, shoe polish and more greasepaint, tinted brown. She felt weighted down by the jewelry and knives that Isabela customarily wore, her respect for Isabela's stamina growing.

"Ready?" the dwarf asked, studying her with a frown. He reached out and pinched her bottom lip hard enough to make it swell.

"Ow! Bloody oath, Varric!" Grace cried, her voice perfectly mimicking Isabela's husky playfulness.

"Damn, you're good!"

As soon as they entered the Hanged Man she was accosted by a bellicose and belligerent man wearing the dark colors of the Felicisima Armada. "You bitch! Castillon wants the book and he wants you. He doesn't care how many pieces you're in when he gets you."

"Oh, I like that! He sent Hayder and his boys, right? You know what happened to them," she reminded, running her thumb across her throat. "I do wish he'd send someone besides boys."

The deep, resonant voice of the pirate sent a prickle of fear down her spine. "I'm more than man enough for you. In fact, I'm twice the man!"

"Junders! Go home!" Grace hissed.

"But I want to be a part of this. I find the goal just and the playacting quite jolly."

Her blood frosted over, running slowly and coldly through her veins. "Never let me hear you say the word 'jolly' again, Justice. It's just wrong coming from you. Now let Anders finish this," she whispered sternly. "Go on, shoo!" she continued in a loud, mocking voice.

"Enough! I'll have my way with you and then send you on your way to Castillon. Come along, wench!"

"You aren't going to let him talk to you that way, are you, Isabela?" Varric asked.

A crowd began to gather around the bar and the Raider grabbed her arm. "Let's go!"

She dug her heeled boots into the wooden floor and pulled her arm out of his grasp. "Not so fast, Handsome. Don't you want to have your way with me?" she asked in a sultry voice, her eyes dancing.

"I've changed my mind. You're probably pox-ridden."

"I am not! I've always been careful about who I sleep with. I have my standards. Luckily, you don't measure up. In fact, I heard a rumor that your mainsail is more of a toothpick."

Raucous laughter filled the Hanged Man as the crowd swelled around them. The 'pirate' growled angrily and clipped her chin with a firm fist. She grunted in surprise. Anders had apparently taken her jest seriously because there was entirely too much strength in the blow. She staggered back and then they were circling each other, knives drawn.

Before she quite understood what was happening, she felt the sting of the blade pierce her chest and with a surprised groan, she fell to the floor. She was vaguely aware of the doors being flung open and the sound of metal boots on the wooden floor.

"In the name of Kirkwall, I order you to – Maker, is she dead?" Aveline bellowed, bending down.

Grace was aware of cold steel and cold fingers touching her throat. She felt a pinprick and then she slid into darkness.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**The following morning …**

Grace swallowed the last of her morning coffee with a grimace. Her throat was still sore from the paralytic agent Anders had used the night before. She reached for another cinnamon roll and bit into it with great gusto.

"Lady Grace, Varric Tethras requests admittance."

"Show him into my study, Bodahn."

"Yes, Lady Grace. And, if you'll pardon my saying so, you are looking a bit peaked this morning."

Grace looked pale and worn because she had cheated death the night before, not because she was worried sick that Bran would never forgive her for excluding him from her mad schemes. Or so she told herself as she went to find Varric.

"Tell me the word on the street," she demanded as soon as they were both settled with a glass of brandy.

His eyes lit with unholy glee. "Well, according to the Kirkwall Crier, Mother Petrice and several members of the Alliance Against Qunari were found dead in their meeting house early this morning. Seems the local authorities claim it's some sort of mass religious suicide.

"Also, Pirate of Many Names has departed with some mysterious relic of some kind. According to Spike and Buffy down at the docks he was also celebrating the demise of a certain Rivaini pirate. Seems someone informed him of last night's events at the Hanged Man.

"And the Arishok's men – I have yet to see a Qunari female and I gotta be honest, Hawke, the thought of doing so terrifies me – are preparing a ship for immediate departure. Wouldn't I like to know what …"

The door was flung open with such force that it bounced off the wall, setting the porcelain figures on the mantelpiece dancing wildly. Bodahn, face as pale as egg fluff, and eyes as large as sovereigns stood on the threshold.

"It's – I – they're so – Messere Karasten," he mumbled breathlessly.

"Oh, this can't be good," Varric said, standing up.

"Serah Hawke, the Arishok will speak with you. Now."

"What? He's here? I'd have baked a cake if I'd known he was coming."

"He warned of your feeble attempts at humor and equivocation. Come with me," the large Qunari with the even larger sword demanded.

Grace nodded. This was obviously the answer to her flippant question of nearly two weeks ago when she'd had the temerity to ask what could possibly go wrong. "Varric, let Mother know about everything. Tell her I'm sorry and give Bran the same message."

"Holy shit, Hawke, you don't mean to go with him?"

"I suspect I'll go one way or the other, and I'd prefer to do it under my own steam."

She walked beside the Qunari who didn't threaten her with words but intimidated her by his sheer bulk. When they arrived at the docks he led her to one of the tall ships in port. The Arishok, imposing as ever, stood at the prow. He could have been the ship's figurehead as large and still as he was.

"Ah, Serah Hawke, I was just about to leave when I realized that I had not seen for myself the Bas Vashedan who had taken the relic. They claim she is dead but you will take me to her. I _will_ see her for myself."

Oh yes, this definitely goes under the category of what could possibly go wrong, Grace thought, frantically trying to decide what to do. Already the Arishok was standing beside her and gripping her arm so tightly she was fairly certain it would soon become a useless appendage, destined to merely swing ineffectually at her side.

They walked briskly – Grace was actually hopping and skipping to keep up – towards Hightown and the Attimm's Family Funerary Facilities. Grace's mind was running in circles, wildly clutching at crazy schemes as she dug her heels in to slow their progress. Her heart, insisting on beating itself out of her chest, dropped to her toes as an alternate escape route. She tripped on her own feet, or perhaps her heart, and asked breathlessly for a moment's rest.

The building loomed on the horizon, tall and narrow like a finger of fate pointing skyward. She gulped and cast a frantic eye behind her, desperately hoping to see her companions coming to her rescue. There was only a street cleaner and a starving dog to be seen. She was doomed. All her plans were for naught. Or, at least some of them were. Mother Petrice and Ser Varnell were gone, that was a good thing. At least for those who would be alive to enjoy that happy circumstance.

Her eyes stung as they continued on. Maker, she should have included Bran in her schemes, he was so bloody cool in the face of danger. Hadn't he pulled her chestnuts out of the fire with that creepy Quentin fellow? She was an idiot. A dolt. A dunderhead. She should be shaken for her willfulness. Instead, she would be assimilated into the Qunari collective with no memories of dancing or arguing or kissing.

"I don't suppose you'd take my word that the deed was done?"

"You alone are basalit-an, Serah Hawke, but I must see for myself."

"And if she isn't there?"

"Then we will fight a duel."

"Until first blood?"

"No, Serah Hawke, until death."

So much for assimilation.

"Oh. Then it's a good thing you'll have your proof in just a minute. I don't suppose we could stop and have a cup of tea first? Just to say our good-byes and all before you sail off into the sunset?"

"Your humor has always puzzled me, but never mind. We are here."

They entered the building to the sight of people scurrying for cover. Only one small, handsome man with a needle-thin mustache and dark, pomaded hair, stood his ground. She felt a moment of hope as Messere Attimm bowed obsequiously and offered his assistance.

"The Rivaini pirate, Isabela. Take us to her at once."

Grace's body tensed and she braced herself for the Arishok's wrath, her eyes closing in a silent prayer to the Maker and his bride and anyone else in the Beyond willing to listen and/or assist her. She thought it likely no one was listening.

"Of course, your er … Arishokness. This way, if you please."

Eyes snapping open, she looked wildly for the nearest exit while promising to reward Attimm from wherever she resided after death. Not that she didn't think she could beat the Arishok to flinders. Well, perhaps not to flinders. She suspected he'd give her a good run for her money, but it seemed an awful way to end a perfectly executed scheme.

They walked slowly down a hallway and Attimm stopped, smiled placidly, and opened the door. Grace was most reluctant to step into the room but the Arishok was not. He pulled her in and then they both stopped.

On a black satin covered table was Isabela, There was a pasty grey cast to her skin, and her lips were an odd shade of pale blue. She was as still as death. Grace blinked. And blinked again. Tears stung her eyes and began to gather speed as they tracked down her face. All that work for nothing. She was dead anyway.

"Wh – wh – wh –" she stammered, unable to form coherent thought, let alone coherent sentences.

"You were correct, Serah Hawke. I will take my leave of you. You will be remembered among our people as Basalit-an, worthy of respect."

So saying, the Arishok turned on his heel and left. Grace stumbled out of the room and down the corridor, tears continuing to fall like a spring storm. Messere Attimm insisted she come into his parlor and accept a cup of fortifying tea, which she cried into. Once he realized she wasn't consolable, he escorted her out of his parlor and back into the hall.

She stood, uncertain and sick with grief and then rubbed at her eyes. There, standing in the shadows was an attractive auburn-haired man and a dark-skinned, if somewhat pale, Rivaini beauty.

Without a word, they briefly rubbed their noses before turning and walking away.


	20. Breakfast of Champions

**A/N: **_Thank you, Oleander's One, for the wonderful beta and reassurances. You are remarkable and I am grateful._  
_Thank you to all who have taken the time to favorite, follow, read and review this story. I appreciate it more than I can say._

**Breakfast of Champions**

Leandra, Keir, and Saemus arrived home two days after the Arishok departed with his tome and not much else. It was not a happy homecoming, much to Grace's surprise. After fending off her mother's pointed and somewhat painful barbs, she offered to meet her over a cup of tea as any civilized person would. That proved less than enjoyable as well.

Grace dressed for the meeting in the oversized shirt and trousers, the wool softened by years of washing. Her legs were thrilled to be in trousers again and she admitted in a quiet little corner of her heart that the rebellious act of wearing the trousers brought a ready smile to her lips that might otherwise have been absent.

Her mother began the conversation without preamble or any pretense of politeness. "How could you, Grace?"

Grace had already seated herself and poured out a cup of tea. Looking up at her mother, a dainty puff pastry in one hand, teacup in the other, she offered an inquiry with one brow, and when that didn't elicit further illumination on the subject, she spoke casually. "How could I what, Mother? Eat another puff pastry? Wear last year's fashions? Contemplate buying an additional tavern?"

The former made her mother's eyes dart to the plate of sweets, the latter made her eyebrows arch in surprise. "_An additional _tavern? Do you mean to tell me, Grace Amell Hawke, a part of your income derives from selling swill to the masses? And last year's fashions did not include peasant's clothing!"

"A rather substantial part of our income, in fact, derives from those taverns and it isn't _swill_, Mother. I ensure that only the best spirits are sold in my establishments."

"Establishment_s_? Maker's breath, how many such establishments are we talking about?"

"More than one and less than a dozen."

"Great sainted Andraste, Grace! You will put me into an early grave, mark my words."

"I believe it is too late for that, Mother."

"Oh, you ungrateful, incorrigible _daughter_!"

How was it possible, Grace wondered, to make the word 'daughter' contain such censure? A chuckle tickled at her throat and wisely remained there. "Can we please, please just concentrate on one fatal sin at a time, Mother? What is it you really want to say?"

"One fatal sin? Truly, Grace, I'm not sure I can narrow it down to so fine a point."

Grace rolled her eyes as she reached for another puff pastry. She refused to sigh about the matter as it would only encourage the look of martyrdom currently being worn by her mother. Leandra Hawke needed no excuses to wear it for an indefinite period of time and Grace was certainly not about to allow it permanent residence on her mother's face. Instead, she spoke with an airy wave of her hand. "Then begin with the most grievous of the charges, Mother, and we'll work down the list. Shall I have Bodahn bring another pot of tea?"

"I recommend it, dear."

After a few moments of domesticity involving cups and fresh tea, Grace was caught by her mother's darkening gaze, one that held reproach and resignation. With an encouraging nod, and fortified by yet another puff pastry, Grace signaled her willingness to listen. "Pray continue, Madame Hawke."

"I will be succinct, Grace, as I can see you are already squirming like a child. To be blunt, Bran is, naturally, _désolé_."

"Nonsense, Mother, Bran is not desolated. His ego is merely a bit lacerated because I did not enlist his aid in the matter of the Qunari. And your Orlesian accent is quite dreadful."

"_Très désolé_."

"_Très désolé_, my _derrière_.

"_Certainement_."

"Mother, you have no idea what you are talking about. How can you believe for even a moment that Bran is upset at all? Has he expressed his displeasure? Has he written an acerbic editorial? Stood in the pulpit and proclaimed that I am without redemptive qualities? Ordered my removal from Kirkwall? Am I beyond redemption in the eyes of the great seneschal?" She paused briefly and dramatically, setting down both her pastry and her teacup to place one splayed hand on her chest before continuing, teacup once more in hand.

"I saved the city a great deal of expense and bother by ridding it of that troublesome woman and that persnickety Arishok. That can only have made Bran's job more pleasant, not less so. He is, no doubt, delighted with my ingenuity and proud of my creativity in dispensing both creatures so completely."

Grace watched as her mother's face contorted into a look of mortification and disbelief. When she spoke, Leandra's voice was an inconsolable wail. "How is it possible? What gods have I offended that my own flesh and blood could be so utterly witless?"

"Such grand theatrics, Mother, truly! However, I am certainly _not_ witless so you've no need to call upon the gods or, should you feel inclined, beat your breast and bemoan your ill fate. My plan was brilliant and never put anyone at risk, other than myself. This city was on the verge of anarchy before I stepped in. Could you not feel it?"

"With your usual lack of perception, you completely overlook how hurt he was, Grace, and I am dumbfounded by such willfulness. You do not think, perhaps, that Bran might have preferred to be involved in this, as he is with other aspects of your life?" Oh, what a nice edge to her words, like a honey-dipped, finely-honed knife to the back, Grace thought with no little amount of amusement. And a tiny dollop of guilt on the side. Perhaps there was some merit to her mother's pronouncements, once the theatrical greasepaint was removed from her words.

It was the unusually dulcet tones in her mother's voice that gave away the depth of her indignation. Grace blinked back the rising laughter to study the situation from a different angle. Perhaps she could tweak her mother's nose a bit more? Perhaps just enough to draw attention away from her transgressions? She decided she'd try, and hastily arranged her expression into one of naïve innocence, a look not seen on her face in many years, but remembered with fondness. "I didn't see the need to involve Bran, Mother. He must remain a neutral party as a representative of Viscount Dumar. Why would I involve him in matters that would show decided bias?"

Here, Leandra shook her head, staring at her daughter in dumbfounded silence. Finally, after long moments, she found her voice, but it contained amazement, and no short supply of sorrow. "Why, indeed? How can I ever hope to have you married and bestowing grandchildren on me when you are so blissfully blind?"

"Perhaps it is not too late to adopt one or two?"

With a flurry of ruffled skirts and equally ruffled sensibilities, Leandra Hawke swept from the room. Grace was left to ponder which of her multitude of sins she should attempt to apologize for first. That she felt the tiniest bit guilty about Bran's exclusion from her plans was outweighed by her relief that his reputation was neither tattered nor tarnished. It suddenly felt like very small consolation as she made her way to her room.

Damn her mother's theatrics!

**~~~oOo~~~**

The news that Viscount Marlowe Dumar, in collaboration with the Grand Cleric and Knight-Commander Meredith, wished to make her the Champion of Kirkwall did not fill Grace with joy. Or happiness. Or any uplifting emotions at all. In point of fact, it filled her with dread. And no little amount of embarrassment.

It wasn't as if she'd saved the city from being sacked by the Qunari. After all, they hadn't lifted weapons against the general citizenry. Nor had Dumar's head been lopped off in a fit of Qunari pique, for the Arishok had not visited the Viscount, not even when he was at his most irritated.

It wasn't as if they had exposed the Chantry as a corrupt and inept institution, either, with the holy mothers running around unduly influencing the populace into rioting against the savage beasts known as Qunari.

No, Grace and her companions had merely sorted out a few issues that were of no real consequence in the greater scheme of life in Kirkwall. To be lauded as some sort of champion was both preposterous and perturbing.

Of course, matters weren't helped by the frigid climate in the seneschal's office. Grace had stopped in to assure Bran that she would attend her lesson in civics at the usual time the following day and she might as well have been talking to an abominably icy man. His attitude infuriated her, but her guilt kept her from doing more than accusing him of being a pestiferous and petulant old prig.

His rejoinder made her blush. "I cannot help but feel compelled to remark upon your own scrofulous attire and scurrilous behavior, Serah Hawke. I believed I had earned your trust and approbation - perhaps even a bit of admiration - but that is not the case, is it? A fool's dream and no more."

Grace glared, waiting for him to continue and he did, rubbing piles of salt into the wound his words were inflicting. "I had also hoped that after weeks and weeks of lessons in deportment and dancing, geography and governance, you might understand that decorum and diplomacy will win the day without resorting to such hugger-muggery as has been witnessed this past week."

"I do care for you, Bran, truly, but I couldn't bring you into the scheme," she protested weakly, feeling more than a soupçon of guilt and shame. Her anger leapt in to protect her tender heart. "Besides, it was hardly hugger-muggery, Ser Seneschal, but clever stratagems that alleviated the growing problem of the Qunari and prevented Mother Petrice from creating civil disobedience on a grand scale. I didn't exclude you for any but the noblest of reasons."

"Of course. Yet my _dear_ Serah Hawke, you were saved once again through my efforts, were you not?"

Never had she heard such a perfect blend of wounded pride and unadulterated anger, and never had she felt more deserving. She opened her mouth to apologize and stood, frozen, unable to form the words. Her next statement surprised even her.

"It was a perfectly executed plan, Seneschal."

"With only one minor flaw, Serah Hawke, which might have seen you dead by the Arishok's hand, had Isabela not had the foresight to share your scheme."

"She had neither right nor reason to do so."

"Had she not? Perhaps she had no right, Grace, but reason was very much on her side."

"I didn't come here to argue with you, you ungrateful, ungracious oaf!"

She clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling provoked. And wretched for allowing herself to be provoked. She had come to make amends, not toss out insults. His eyes were dark in his pale face and she had to clasp her hands tightly to prevent them from reaching out to ease the quick flash of pain she saw there.

"Truly? That is a first, is it not? Your agenda from the very beginning has been to aggravate and offend, to continue in a pertinacious and vexatious manner and I cannot help but feel that you and your cohorts take great pleasure in ensuring this office looks as ineffectual and incompetent as possible."

"Then why am I being rewarded for such behavior? Why bestow such a ridiculous title on me if I am as impertinent and aggravating as you claim?" she demanded, feeling rather proud of herself for such sterling logic.

"My intent, Serah Hawke, was not to remunerate you but to reprove you as I have learned how much you abhor such attention and rewards."

She worked hard to keep her expression neutral, her thoughts private, and her hands to herself, but internally she writhed with guilt. She was not successful. "I won't apologize for being who I am, Bran. That is the first step in losing one's self!"

"It is the first step in acknowledging your need for others, and I am not the only one who deserves an apology, not to mention a bit of gratitude."

Here she faltered completely and, taking a deep breath, apologized politely and completely, expressing her appreciation for his timely intervention on her behalf. If her voice resembled the interior of an ice cave, her words could not be faulted.

"I would like to understand, Grace. I think, given our association, I deserve that. Is it that you do not trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Bran!" she exclaimed, truly stung, ice melting at his renewed look of genuine hurt. "How can you even ask that? Haven't I allowed you to bend me and shape me into some finely-feathered bird of fashion? Haven't I spent countless hours learning to bow and scrape and dance while discussing politics?"

"Yes, I see the lessons on fashion were truly well-received and taken to heart."

She glanced down at the grey shirt and brown woolen trousers, their legs tucked into high black boots in need of polishing. "I missed my old hand-me-downs," she admitted, smoothing the worn collar into place as a rare blush bloomed like summer roses.

"I trust you will dress appropriately for the breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Yes, yes, I'll be the epitome of grace and charm. Even you will be unable to find fault with me."

A muffled sound of humor quickly held in check greeted her proclamation and she raised a brow, her guilt beginning to take on an edge of icy ire once more. "You are an odious, smug little man," she bit out and turned, intent on departing with as loud a bang as possible.

The sound of the door reverberating should have filled her ears with intense pleasure but she heard only the hurt in Bran's voice, hidden under layers of civility.

She stalked off to make amends with Isabela, wondering how many more times she would have to apologize for her decisions. Although, now that she thought about it, she didn't have a recollection of making a sincere apology, only one as cold as the Frostbacks. Yet she knew that he deserved one, knew that she had hurt him, and knew why. She just didn't know if she'd do it any differently, and until she knew, she wasn't sure how to apologize without revealing more than she was willing to.

By all the holy hosts of the heavens above, she would be thrice cursed by the Maker before she would understand the complexities of human relationships.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I don't know, Hawke, you look like you belong in Darktown, not here." Varric raised his mug of ale and smiled to take the sting out of his words. "And just when I was starting to appreciate your new wardrobe."

"Thanks, Varric. That didn't sting a bit."

"Oh," he began, drawing the word out, eyes lit with humor, "you wanted me to lie. Why didn't you say so? Hmm, now let's see what I can do to comply." He rubbed his jaw and then nodded once. "You wear trousers better than any other human female I know."

"Only because Isabela doesn't actually wear trousers."

"No she doesn't, and glad I am of that," Varric agreed, taking a deep pull of ale before setting the mug aside. "Now, what say we go find Rivaini and see if she's talking to either of us."

They found Isabela, cards in one hand and drink in another, at Lady Delilah's House of Delights. There was no need to ask what those delights might be; it was made obvious by the scantily clad women draped in various risqué poses scattered throughout the room. The red and gold flocked wallpaper and overstuffed red velvet settees only added to the overall presentation of delights in store for the well-heeled visitor.

"Oh. It's you."

Not an auspicious start, Grace thought with a certain glumness of spirit. She let her eyes wander until they settled on a tall redhead with a bountiful bosom. "Now we know what Aveline does on her days off," she said to Varric, careful not to nudge or wink. She didn't want to purchase the woman, after all, merely call attention to the fact that she could be Aveline's twin.

"That's Dorcas. She's a favorite with the city guard, as you can imagine."

A shiver tripped along her spine at the thought and she turned her attention elsewhere, refusing to give in to the temptation of asking the question foremost in her mind. And she certainly didn't want to imagine … anything about her resemblance to Aveline. It wasn't that she didn't like Aveline, for all her gruff manners and rigid morals, but the incongruity of having a lady of ill -repute servicing the guard captain's men was almost more than she could bear.

A new thought blinked into existence. "Isabela! Surely you aren't interested in –"

"Stop right there, Hawke! You've already fallen about as far as you can in my books, so just put a sock in it," Isabela growled, slapping her cards on the table and standing. She put her hands on her hips, her magnificent chest rising and falling in her agitation. Grace glanced at her own endowments and sighed. There was no comparison and she wondered briefly if she would ever stop making one.

"You could have let me help, Hawke. I managed to captain a ship and make a pile of money without your help."

It seemed cruel to point out that she'd lost both her crew and her ship to the reefs and rocks off the Wounded Coast while trying to avoid the Qunari dreadnaught on her backside, and Grace knew such a reminder would prove disastrous to her friendship. She bit her tongue and nodded, trying to look contrite.

"I'm an idiot, Isabela, I agree. And if you hadn't stepped in at the last, I'd have been a dead idiot, I suspect, so really what I'm here for is to thank you and apologize."

Isabela's eyes blinked in surprise, a sly smile coming to light up her face. "I'm listening."

Grace blinked. Hadn't she just apologized and thanked the woman? Apparently she needed practice as she had failed in each instance. Her mother and Bran might not ever speak to her again with any degree of affection or amiability.

"I should have included you in the planning, Isabela. You were perfect as a corpse. I can't imagine why I didn't see that from the beginning. You were magnificent."

Isabela's smile grew and the mischief was a golden light in her eyes. "So, you'll include me in your mad schemes from now on?"

Without hesitation, at least no apparent hesitation, Grace grinned. "Absolutely."

"Sucker," Varric whispered, elbowing her.

Grace felt a sudden tremor of misgiving tickle her stomach. What did Varric know that Grace didn't? And why was Isabela rubbing her hands together in such glee? Grace's smile faltered.

"Excellent. Here's the thing, Grace. Fenris wrote to that sister of his, and she's due in Kirkwall any day. Raise your hand if you believe his old master won't be right behind her."

Grace's heart plummeted to just below her navel. Attempting to help another of her friends was only going to get her into deeper trouble with everyone else. And he probably wouldn't appreciate it any more than Isabela had. Assisting companions was a thankless job. She squirmed slightly. "I – um – oh my, I'm late for my dance lessons. We'll talk, Isabela, I promise. We'll do lunch. Varric, make the arrangements."

"What am I, your social secretary?"

With a wary wave, Grace fled Delilah's, having sampled none of her delights.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The banquet hall was filled to capacity, long rows of tables draped in fine linen, host to platters of ham and sausage and all manner of breakfast foods. Nobles dressed in their morning finery gathered around each table. On a raised dais in the front of the hall was a smaller table, richly dressed and waiting for Grace. As soon as her knees quit trembling like a blancmange, she would find her way to her seat, which was probably the one that looked suspiciously like a gargoyle-encrusted throne.

Bran, standing beside Leandra, glanced at her and she tried to smile, though she felt it wobbling almost as badly as her knees. She'd be thrice cursed by the Maker if he thought she'd be able to walk to her seat.

Elthina took her place on the dais, her smile befuddled. Grace shot a glare at Bran who bowed slightly, his smile a shade too triumphant for her liking. She raised her chin and let her eyes wander to her mother, who gave her the merest hint of a smile before gathering her skirts and with a swish of purple silk, made her way to her place on the one side of the gargoyle throne.

"I hate you," Grace mouthed to Bran, forcing herself to smile brightly at him.

He bowed again, the irony in the gesture not lost on her. She tossed her head and forced herself to walk sedately to her chair. Not for the world would she faint. Nor give in to the trembling that had beset her knees and stomach.

With a fanfare of trumpets, Marlowe Dumar entered the hall. With stately dignity, he walked up the aisle, greeting his subjects with such royal poise she barely recognized him as the good-natured and fun-loving man who came to eat at the Amell estate so frequently. He came to stand beside her.

"You must have really upset Bran. This is more pomp and circumstance than I had when I was crowned as the viscount," he murmured with a chuckle.

"I'm not sure he'll ever forgive me," she sighed unhappily. At a signal from Bran, Marlowe sat down and with a low roar, chairs were scraped back and people sat. A profusion of servants entered and began serving the meal. A rumble of noise filled the hall as people began to talk. Grace pushed the food around on her plate and pretended to eat, just as she pretended she was having a wonderful time.

After the remnants of the meal were taken away and the tablecloths swept clean of enough crumbs to feed all the denizens of Darktown, Marlowe rose to a smattering of cheers and applause. He held his hands up, cleared his throat, and launched into a speech guaranteed to make even the most interested man nod off.

Grace rubbed at the arms of her chair and forced herself to look at the crowd, her mind blanking out as the viscount droned on. How could a man so witty and fun in a card game be so desperately dull as a public speaker? Her eyes grew heavy and with a start, she forced herself to sit up and pay attention.

She felt Bran's eyes on her and turned slightly to see him standing by the great wooden doors. His hands were folded and he looked perfectly calm and terribly efficient, just as he had that first day she'd entered the keep. An unwanted thought crept in, ignoring her best efforts to push it away. Were they all the way back to the beginning again? Polite strangers? If so, she had nobody to blame but herself. She was still just as untamed as she'd ever been, as if all his lessons had been forgotten. Why did she always think she knew best?

"Now, join me in welcoming the Champion of Kirkwall, Grace Hawke!"

Grace blinked, panic rising up to grab her throat and choke her. "W – what? Get up and speak?" she mumbled on a high, squeaking note. She'd kill Bran for this. Kill him until he died from it.

More cheers and applause rang through the hall, drowning out her fumbling protests. She felt her mother's hand patting her arm with a small, encouraging smile, a hint of pride and soupçon of gloat present. Bran's face was unreadable and he took a step towards the dais and then stopped.

She rose and tried to smile but her lips were too busy quaking. She took a deep breath and then another. Damn Bran. Damn him for trying to make her something she wasn't. Champion? She was no more a champion than she was a lady. Anger finally pushed her nerves aside. Her chin rose and her knees firmed. She may not be a champion, or a lady, but she was a scrapper and she had not yet begun to fight. She opened her mouth and spoke.

"Thank you all for a great breakfast. I really need to get the recipe for that egg dish."

Well that hadn't been what she'd intended to say. Another ribbon of panic sliced into her and she willed it away. She was, by the Maker, Grace Amell Hawke, not some sniveling coward! Her stomach lurched as silence fell. Then a slow wave of laughter started from the back of the room, gradually filling the banquet hall. Her shoulders relaxed and she glanced at Bran, whose smile was wry and encouraging.

"I don't know that I'm a champion, but I do know that whatever I've accomplished, I've done so with the help of a great many people. If we had the time I'd list them all, but honestly, I'm not sure my nerves are up to the task of standing here and speaking. Some champion I am."

She paused and looked out at the crowd, searching for a pair of whiskey-colored eyes before continuing. "But, there is one person I want to single out. His unflagging guidance and unflinching support have made me a better person. I thank you, Branagh Drummond. You are the true Champion of Kirkwall."

With that, Grace's knees gave way and she sat rather abruptly in her chair. Applause and cheers reverberated through the hall and she gripped the arms of her grotesque gargoyle throne, trying desperately not to pass out or embarrass herself by tossing her breakfast back out of her stomach.

With that, the hall began to empty and she was surrounded by well wishers when all she wanted was to find Bran and sneak off for a few moments to sort things out. He was making his way through the throngs, a warmth in his smile that had been lacking earlier. Her heart kicked her in the chest and she grinned.

"Well done, dear. I think you can be forgiven much with that speech," her mother murmured, kissing her cheek.

"Serah Hawke," Bran said quietly, his voice wrapping around her like a warm cloak. "I believe you are –"

"Grace! Quick! That bastard magister is trying to take Fenris!"

Grace spun on her heel and began to push her way through the crowds only to stop and turn, holding her hand out to Bran.

"Busy?" she asked with a sassy grin.


End file.
